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Ihcb.ty Sherwood, Jtfedy, lc Jones Mai/ i 7 -iSo# 










































WILLIAM TELL; 

OR, 

SWISSERLAND DELIVERED. 


BY THE 

CHEVALIER DE FLORIAN, A 

MEMBER OF THE ROYAL ACADEMIES OF PARIS, MADRID, FLORENCE, 

4.C. Sffi. 

A POSTHUMOUS WORK. 

To which is prefixed, 

THE LIFE OF THE AUTHOR, 

BY JAUFFRET. 




TUAXSI.ATLD FROM THE FRENCH, 

BY WILLIAM B. HEWETSON, 

Author of “ The Blind Boy,” “ The Fallen Minister,” &c. &c. 


1 



LONDON: 


PRINTED FOR SHERWOOD, GILBERT, and PIPER, 


PATE RNOSTKR- ROW. 



















K> % 


C** € 


TRANSLATOR’S PREFACE. 


B HE well-known circumstance to which Swis - 
serland owed the happiness it so long enjoyed, in 
the union of its Cantons, has employed the pen of 
many a celebrated writer. Although embellished 
by the fictions of poetry, yet the leading incidents 
are strictly true, and have preserved their colour¬ 
ing ; indeed, they are so striking in themselves, 
that fiction could add nothing to their beauties. 

The story of William Tell has been told in va¬ 
rious ways; it has been dramatized in almost 
every country in Europe, where Liberty dare 
raise her head: but in no dress that it has appear¬ 
ed as yet, does it equal the simple, elegant garb of 
Florian. The characters are drawn with the hand 
of a perfect master of the human mind ; the 
incidents not overstrained, and all within the pale 
of probability ;—the language simple, chaste, and 
elegant; never descending, nor rising intoturgidity . 




VI 


It is a remarkable circumstance, that Cervantes 
wrote his immortal work Don Quixotte in a Spanish 
prison, and SmoUet translated it in an English one. 
Florian, too, when in a wretched prison at Paris , 
surrounded with the outcasts of society, wrote his 
William Tell, the Champion of Liberty, and sent it 
to be approved of by those self-called sons of Free¬ 
dom who then deluged France with blood. 

The works of Florian are highly appreciated in 
his native country; some of them have appeared in 
English. A bookseller of eminence purchased all 
his papers, and has lately published those works 
which Florian did not live to finish. Tell teas 
amongst the number.—The others arc his Miscella- 
iiies ; and Eliezer and Nephthali, a charming poem 
from the Hebrew, which will soon be given to the 
public. 

It is a general and a pretty generally accredited 
maxim, that all Translations fall short of their Ori¬ 
ginals:—This I submit to; yet I have been vain 
enough to attempt to render William Tell into 
English. If I have succeeded, the honour rests 
with Florian ; if I have failed, the fault alone is 
yiine. 


LIFE 


OP 

FLORIAN. 


He who, called into life loaded with all the 
favours which Nature lavishes on the objects 
of her affections, regards the place on which 
he is destined for a while to move with an 
eye of indifference or contempt;—he who, 
still more culpable, sullies the earth with his 
vices in place of embellishing it by his vir¬ 
tues ; seem both equally unworthy to enjoy 
for any length of time the benefits of exist¬ 
ence. If death advances to give the final blow, 
it only exercises an act of justice; and the 
tears of love and friendship will but rarely 
moisten the tomb of such a solitary being. 
But the man whose heart is, as it were, the 
very asylum of feeling, whose eyes glisten with 




• • • 

VI11 

the tears of gratitude at beholding the beau¬ 
ties of Nature ;—the man whose virtues re¬ 
call to our minds the Golden Age; whose 
songs, pure as the morning breeze, never 
raise a blush upon the cheek of Innocence; 
such a man as this should never die. ’Tis 
for such a man the Earth is chiefly fruitful; 
for him that she puts forth her gayest orna¬ 
ments. If he submits to the common fate 
of all; if an early death snatches him from 
that abode of which he was the ornament; 
every feeling heart experiences thehnost lively 
grief. Love and Friendship embrace his 
tomb; surround it with the mournful cy¬ 
press ; cover it with myrtle; and long after 
he has ceased to be, his fame still lives with 
honour. * 

I have described Florian without having 
as yet named him, and already have you 
recognized the picture. This charming poet, 
whose works breathe the most touching traits 
of sensibility, whose heart always directed his 
understanding, who celebrated the charms 


IX 


of rural Nature, the simple manners of the 
Golden Age, and the chaste loves of Nature’s 
simple children, Florian had not attained his 
eighth lustre when a sudden death snatched 
him from learning and from friendship. 

My design is to collect here some traits 
both of the person and of the different works 
of this delightful author; works which had 
procured for him, while living, a reputation 
which time will serve but to increase: but 
I trust I shall be allowed to dwell a moment 
on that period of his life which so powerfully 
influenced even the very style of his writings ; 
I mean his infancy. Even to this very day, 
in writing the lives of men of great celebrity, 
historians have not deigned to revert to their 
early years. 

Jean-Pierre Claris de Florian was born 
in 1? 55, at the Castle of Florian in the Low¬ 
er Cevennes, at some distance from Anduza 
and Saint Hypolite. Although these parti¬ 
culars w r ere not known to us, it would be easy 
to supply them. In fact, we read them at 

a % 




X 

the opening of his Pastoral of Estelle: <c I 
wish to celebrate my native land—to describe 
those delightful climates where the green 
olive, the vermilioned mulberry, the gilded 
grape, grow up together beneath an azure 
sky—whereupon smiling hills, sprinkled with 
violets and daffodils, bound numerous flocks 
and herds—where a sprightly yet a feeling 
people, laborious but yet cheerful, escape 
from want by toil, and from vice by cheerful¬ 
ness. ”—And a few lines lower: C( On the 
borders of the Gardon, at the foot of the lofty 
mountains of Cevennes, between the town of 
Anduza and the village of Massanne, lies a 
valley where Nature seems to have collected 
all her treasures .” 

The castle in which Florian was born, was 
built by his grandfather, a Counsellor of the 
Chamber of Accounts at Montpellier; who 
ruined himself by building a superb mansion 
on a very small estate, and who, when he 
died, left two sons, and many debts :—from 
the second son, Florian derived his birth. 


XI 


It appeals that his grandfather had conceived 
a great affection for his grandson; and it af¬ 
forded him real pleasure to see him grow up 
under his own eye. Sensible to this tender¬ 
ness, and penetrated both with respect and 
love, the young Floricin joyfully accompanied 
him in his rural excursions, and procured to 
the old man a satisfaction with which he was 
highly flattered....that of admiring his plan¬ 
tations :—hence arose that respect and vene¬ 
ration which Floricin always evinced for old 
age, and that pleasing melancholy which he 
contracted a habit of, although he was natu¬ 
rally of a gay and lively disposition. 

One of the causes which contributed to 
instil into Floriau *s heart that pleasing melan¬ 
choly which constitutes the powerful charm 
of his writings, was his having from his child¬ 
hood to bewail a tender mother whom he 
had never the happiness to know, and who 
was highly deserving of the regret which he 
experienced for her. The idea that he never 
enjoyed the presence, the caresses, and the 


XII 


\ 


fostering cares, of her who gave him birth, 
was to Florian ever a source of painful 
recollection; it was always foremost in his 
thoughts:—and in the course of time, the 
more he obtained success, the more did he 
regret his mother could not share his feelings. 
He well knew that no person would have 
been more sensible. His father, a worthy, 
honest man, was more intent on the cultiva¬ 
tion of his land than on his understanding. 
His mother, on the contrary, naturally in¬ 
telligent, had always enjoyed the pleasure 
derived from letters: it was from her that 
Florian believed he inherited his literary ta¬ 
lents. From the descriptions given him by 
those who had known, he had a portrait of 
her painted, for which he always shewed the 
most profound veneration. 

After the death of his grandfather, young 
Florian was sent to a school at Saint Hvpo- 
lite: he learned but little there; but his 
natural genius and his witty sallies were soon 
remarked ;—and the favourable reports which 


/ 


\ 


• « « 

Xlll 

his relations received of his happy dispositions 
determined them to give him an education 
capable of assisting his talents. 

His father’s elder brother had married the 
niece of Voltaire. That great man was spoken 
to in behalf of young Florian , and was inform¬ 
ed of the rising genius he displayed. Vol¬ 
taire was anxious to see him. Florian was 
sent to him, and his first introduction into 
the w'orld was at Ferney. 

Voltaire was singularly amused with his 
gaiety, his gentleness of manners, his lively 
repartees, and conceived a great friendship 
for him : this is evident from his Letters to 
Floriannet , the friendly familiar name he 
gave him:—indeed it was said, and even 
mentioned in some of the periodical works of 
the day? that he was his near relation ;—but 
he was no other wav allied to him than as the 
nephew of the man who had married his niece- 
From Ferney, Florian went to Paris, where 
they procured him several masters to cultivate 
and improve his rising talents. He passed 


/ 


xiv 

some years there; and during that period 
made several journeys to Hornoy, a country 
seat of his aunt’s, in Picardy. Destined from 
that time for the profession of arms, he 
thought it his duty to adopt the spirit of it: 
all his sports savoured of combats. The 
perusal of some old romances on the subject 
of knight-errantry heated his imagination; 
and the prowess of the knights and deeds of 
chivalry became so much to his taste, that 
having then, for the first time, read Don 
Quixotte, which he afterwards translated, far 
from deriving pleasure from the work, he was 
almost disgusted with it. Pie looked upon 
Michael Cervantes as an absurd, impertinent 
blockhead, for having dared to attack with 
the arms of ridicule, heroes who were the ob¬ 
jects of his admiration. 

As his family was not rich, in the year 
1768 he entered into the service of the Duke 
de Penthievre, as his Page : his friends hoped 
by this means he would be enabled to finish 
his education, and, in the end, might obtain 


XV 


some honourable employment: but the edu¬ 
cation of Pages was not the most excellent, 
and, without the resources which he had 
within himself, would have availed him 
little. 

The Duke, who attended to his own house¬ 
hold, and who possessed a sound judgment, 
soon distinguished him from among his com¬ 
panions. His frankness, his pleasantries, 
and jokes, ahvars within the strictest bounds 
of decency, and his lively witticisms, fre¬ 
quently amused that virtuous personage, who, 
spite of his wealth, of his goodness, and be¬ 
nevolence, was of all men in France perhaps 
the one who was less happy. 

It was during the period that young Flo¬ 
rida was Page (he was then about fifteen) 
that he composed the first lines which oame 
from his pen. The occasion which gave rise 
to them, and the subject he chose out of pre¬ 
ference, equally contribute to give an idea of 
his character, which, as I have already said, 
was a melange of mirth and melancholy.—- 


XVI 

The conversation one day at the Duke’s was 
rather grave, and turned upon religious dis- 
courses and sermons. Florian suddenly en¬ 
gaged in it, and maintained that a sermon was 
by no means difficult to compose; and add¬ 
ed, that he thought he was capable of com¬ 
posing one, if it was necessary. The Prince 
took him at his word, and betted a wager of 
fifty louis that he would not succeed. The 
Curate of St. Eustache, who was present, was 
to be the judge. Florian immediately set to 
work, and in the course of a few days pro¬ 
duced the fruits of his labour. 

The astonishment of the Prince and of the 
Curate was extreme, to hear a youth recite a 
sermon upon death, which was worthy of being 
submitted to the public eye. Thefirst agreed 
that he had lost his wager, adding that he ex¬ 
perienced much real pleasure in having lost 
it; and immediately paid down the amount. 
The other (the Curate) got possession of the 
sermon, took it away, and preached it at his 
parish church.. 


XVII 


When Florian had fulfilled the duties of a 
Page, which only continued till a certain age, 
he was a long time doubtful what line of life 
he should adopt, and his relations partook of 
his uncertainty. Some advised him to solicit 

4 

a place of Gentleman of Honour in the Prince’s 
household, as that place offered a certain and 
quiet life; others (and his father was of the 
number) wished that he should pursue the 
career of arms. As he had not entirely lost 
all his ideas of chivalry, he inclined strongly 
to that side. The u pomp and pageantry of 
war’ appeared to him in a more seducing 
light than all the advantages of the sedentary 
life they wished him to adopt; and he remark¬ 
ed pleasantly enough, on the subject of the 
place of Gentleman to the Prince, which had 
been solicited for and offered to him, (C I have 
been too long a footman , to become a valet - 
de-chambre 

He therefore chose the service, and entered 
into what was then called the Corps of Royal 
Artillery. He went to Bapaume, where the 


xviii 

military college was: he applied himself to 
the study of mathematics, and succeeded, as 
he possessed an aptness at every branch of 
learning. But the science of calculation was 
by no means analogous with the turn of his 
mind : he soon discovered it had no attrac¬ 
tions for him. Born with a lively, brilliant 
imagination, Florian conceived that the sci¬ 
ence of calculation served but to restrain its 

flights, and he consequently forgot it almost 

«»• 

as soon as he had learned it. 

The academy at Bapaume, where Florian 
then was, was composed of young men, who 
almost all possessed considerable talents, but 
with whom reason was a very rare guest. We 
should suppose that they were occupied with 
their different studies, since many clever per¬ 
sons have come from it; but we may pretty 
well judge what must be the life of a great 
number of young men, hurried away by the 
impetuosity of youth, and yielding to all the 
extravagancies of their fancies. Nothing 
could keep them in restraint: one quarrel 


XIX 


gave rise to another, and these daily disputes 
always ended in duels. Florian was wound¬ 
ed several times. At length, the want of dis¬ 
cipline in the pupils became so great, that 
they were obliged to suppress the establish 
ment.—Who could have ever supposed that 
from such a school should come the author 
of Estelle and Galatea P 

Much about this time Florian obtained a 
troop of cavalry in the regiment of Penthievre> 
then in garrison at Maubeuge. Soon after 
his arrival in that city, he became so violent¬ 
ly enamoured with a Canoness as amiable as 
she was virtuous, that he absolutely wished to 
marry her. His friends and relations wished 
to dissuade him from a match which was no 
way suitable to his years or his fortune, and 
they at last succeeded. 

His family, from whom he had but little to 
expect, resolved to attach him to a man of 
power and interest, by procuring for him, 
notwithstanding his opposition, the place 
which he had before refused ; but Florian 
wished to serve, and the Prince did not 


XX 


wish any gentleman to be employed about 
his person who was attached to the service. 
Anxious, however, to fix the wavering resolu¬ 
tion of a man whose society he loved, he even 
began to smooth the difficulties which might 
interfere with the inclinations of Florian, It 
was agreed, then, that he should retire upon 
half pay; that his rank should still continue; 
and that he should be wholly at liberty to re¬ 
main in his new situation. He settled, there¬ 
fore, at Paris; and this sedentary life, which 
he had so great a dread of, contributed not a 
little to his launching into the career of letters. 

It was then, in fact, that in order to re¬ 
move the ennui which sometimes seized him, 
and of which he said himself he was too sus¬ 
ceptible, he began to write. The fondness 
which he always had for the Spanish lan¬ 
guage, revived; he applied himself to the 
study of it, and formed the plan of translating 
into French every Spanish work which might 
appear to please the general taste of the peo¬ 
ple. After a long hesitation, divided in his 
opinions on several authors, he made choice 



XXI 


of Cervantes ; and, finding his Galatea pos¬ 
sessed of much interest, spite of its imper¬ 
fections, he resolved to set about it. The 
happy alterations which he made in that poem 
—the entire scenes he has added to it—the 
rustic fete—the story of the doves—the fare¬ 
well to Elicio's dog—the last canto entirely, 
which he thought necessary to finish the po¬ 
em which Cervantes never finished—the ele¬ 
gant and delicate stanzas which he has scat¬ 
tered through the work—all contributed to 
the success of Galatea, which determined 
Florian to give himself up entirely to this 
species of composition, the Pastoral Romance, 
so long fallen into absolute discredit. 

He published j Estelle, and obtained fresh 
success, the glory of which was exclusively 
his own: Estelle, in fact, was solely his own 
invention, and pleased as much as Galatea . 
There are those who even prefer it to the lat¬ 
ter; but the greatest number regard Estelle 
and Galatea as two sisters equally amiable, 
and between whom it is difficult to make a 
choice. 





XXII 


It is needless to speak of his other works; 
they are in the hands of almost every person. 
The custom he had contracted of studying and 
writing had become in him a real want: he 
never passed a day without this kind of la¬ 
bour, and he frequently toiled from morning 
till night. 

“ Tiy to write fables,” said the Duke de 

Penthievre one day to him. Florian follow- 

* 

ed his advice ; he wrote fables : many years 
passed away before he published any of them, 
and only gave them to the world three or four 
years before his death. This collection, the 
most perfect which has appeared since La 
Fontaine, is of all Florian ’s works that which 
posterity will admire the most: at the head 
of this work he had his portrait engraved. 

Few authors were admitted at so early an 
age into the French Academy: he was only 
thirty-three, the day he was appointed a mem¬ 
ber. But he did not look upon this place as 
a place of idleness, or as a privilege for doing 
nothing; his new title, far from diminishing, 
increased his love of toil; and, if a premature 



XX1U 

death had not stopped him in his career, he 
had planned what was sufficient to have kept 
him employed for many years. 

Amongst his projects, was that of writing 
the lives of eminent and illustrious characters 
of modem history, and comparing them with 
each other, after the manner of Plutarch. He 
waited, he said, to undertake these different 
works till the fire of his imagination should 
be cooled : (e that,” said he, “ shall be the 
employment of my latter years.” 

The affection which he had conceived for 
Spain and the Spanish people was not exclu¬ 
sive : there was another people who shared it; 
one would not easily guess who—It was 
the Jews. He had a perfect knowledge of 
their history, and frequently applied it most 
happily. He had always a strong desire to 
compose a Jewish work; and he wrote one 
in four hooks, which forms a neat small 
volume about the size of his Galatea: it is 
entitled Eliezer and Nephthali . It is entirely 
a work of imagination, but possesses the 
most lively interest. At the very moment I 








XXIV 


am now writing a search is making for this 
precious manuscript, which cannot be found 
among the author’s papers.* Nothing shall 
be neglected to discover it, and to hasten the 
period when the public may enjoy this in¬ 
teresting production. 

The last work of Florian is his translation 
of Don Ouixotte:—he worked at it, he said, 
in order to rest and unbend his mind, and to 
prove to Cervantes that he had entirely for¬ 
gotten the aversion he conceived against him 
in his youth. When a friend observed to 
him that Don Ouixotte had been read by all 
the world; that the passion he attacked not 
being now the fashion, would excite but 
little interest; he replied that Cervantes being 
the best writer that Spain ever had, he should 
be better known; that those who had only 
read the translation of Fillau de Saint Mar¬ 
tin knew him not at all; and that he hoped 
they would read his, which on the whole 

* Since the above was written the MS. has been 
discovered, and printed at Paris:—it is a beautiful tale, 
and, if possible, surpasses the Death of Abel, 


XXV 


was only a free translation. As few writers 
have been more read than Florian , we trust 
his hopes will not be deceived. His transla¬ 
tion will be brought forward with all possible 
dispatch.* 

The “ private life of Florian like the 
generality of men of letters, affords no inci¬ 
dents of any striking nature:—he wrote it 
himself; it must have been interesting, for he 
related every thing in a pleasing manner, and 
knew how to stamp a value even upon 
trifles;—but this Life mo3t probably was de¬ 
stroyed, and there is only one person to whom 
it was ever read. 

Those who were not intimately acquainted 
with him, can form no idea of the difference 
between Florian in company and Florian in 
his study. When he found himself in a so¬ 
ciety of persons who were known to him, and 

* Florian's Don Quixotte has since appeared from 
the stereotype of Didot, of Paris:—it is in six neat 
volumes, with twenty-four plates, exquisite though small. 
It is about to be translated into English. 

b 


XXVI 


amongst whom he was perfectly at ease, he 
yielded to the charms ®f conversation; and 
there was none more lively, more agreeable, 
more entertaining, than his own. When his 
spirits were a little elevated, he would make 
the melancholy laugh; on the other hand, 
where he was unacquainted with those present, 
or had no intimate acquaintance with them, 
he always appeared grave and serious :—but 
even this very gravity, with those who knew 
him well, formed a singular contrast with his 
natural gaiety. 

He made several visits to the convent of 
La Trappe along with the Duke de Pen- 
thievre. The sight of these melancholy 
monks, who never wear a smile, did not in 
the least alter his jovial disposition ;—it was - 
even the cause of his being guilty of an im¬ 
prudence for which he was afterwards extreme¬ 
ly sorry. One day, at the conclusion of the 
service at which he had assisted, all the 
monks, according to their custom, prostrated 
themselves, and kissed the earth, waiting till 
the Abbot gave the s ignal for them to rise. 


XXVil 


Fiorian , who no doubt thought this medita¬ 
tion a little too long, struck a blow upon the 
stall in which he sat:—a monk, who thought 
it was the signal from the Abbot, turned 
round, saw from whence the noise proceeded, 
and faintly smiled. They left the church ;— 
but judge of the surprise of Fiorian when he 
saw the unhappy monk come by order of 
the Abbot, and throw himself at his feet. 
Fiorian , softened even to tears, raised him up ; 
penetrated with the idea of the innocent 
coming to implore forgiveness of the guilty. 
With such a character as his, it may be sup¬ 
posed he was displeased with this solitude:— 
quite the reverse; he still continued his la¬ 
bours even there. In this he resembled La- 
motte, who there wrote his opera of Issie ; 
but Lamotte wished to become a monk, and 
Fiorian never had d thought of it. 

If he had wished to mix much with society, 
he would have experienced the most flattering 
reception; but he loved study and retirement. 
—If,” said he, (( I was to accept all the 
invitations I receive, I should never have a 


XXV 111 

single moment to myself—for which reason 
he only visited in three or four families, and 
even there but seldom:—the remainder of 
his time he past at home, where he found 
himself more comfortable than any where 
else. An apartment was fitted up for him 
at the Hotel Toulouse , which he arranged 
according to his own taste:—his library 
opened into an aviary, peopled by a multitude 
of birds, whose various warblings cheered lhs 
labours. 

It was there that he passed the most pre¬ 
cious portion of his life, composing these 
charming works and practising all the social 
virtues: the sensibility which diffuses itself 
throughout his writings, he exercised in all 
his actions. Never did the unhappy implore 
his assistance in vain. When his own abi¬ 
lities were insufficient, he had recourse to the 
Prince; and never did he make use of his 
interest with him, but to do good. It would 
be difficult to say how many he has had the 
means of doing service to. 

He possessed but a moderate fortune; the 


XXIX 


salary annexed to his situation constituted the 
chief part of it: but owing to what he derived 
from his writings, and the system of order 
and economy with which all his affairs were 
arranged, he always found himself able to 
indulge in the benevolence natural to his cha¬ 
racter. Whenever his bookseller brought 
him a sum of money, he - never failed to lay 
aside a part of it for his friend the Curate of 
St. Eustache to distribute amongst the poor. 

I will just relate another anecdote which 
will clearly elucidate his character:—At the 
death of his father, who was merely tenant for 
life, he found nothing but debts he might 
easily have evaded the payment of them; 
but he acted otherwise. He sold every thing 
which his father had left behind, and payed 
off*all the debts out of his own property; 
he reserved nothing, save a cottage with 
a small field, which he gave the full 
possession of to a worthy woman who 
had lived forty years servant with his father, 
and had seen him brought into the world, 

b 2 


XXX 


The poor woman would not accept his gift:—■ 
she told him that she would soon restore it 
to him by her death. She little thought that 
she would survive him. 

Such was Florian ;—such was the man, 
amiable in his conduct as in his writings; 
dividing his time equally between friendship 
and study; ever ready to oblige; incapable of 
giving a denial; a stranger to every species of 
animosity.—He retired to Seaux at the com- 

9 

mcncement of the revolution ; and, solely em¬ 
ployed in his solitude in literary pursuits,, 
could it be supposed that envy would disturb 
the tranquillity of his days ? would tear him 
from his peaceful thickets, and drag him to 
a prison ? He had so little an idea of it, 
that his arrest came upon him like a thunder¬ 
bolt :—he felt uneasy when they said to 
him, (e You are not at liberty and from that 
moment felt that this trait of man’s injustice 
would conduct him to the tomb. 

Posterity will with difficulty credit, that the 
author of Estelle and Galatea , living in rural 
retirement, surrounded by his books, should 





XXXI 


have given sufficient cause for his being hur¬ 
ried to a prison. 

Amongst those various features which 
historians will cite, in order to characterize 
the epocha of the revolutionary Regime , they 
will not fail to remember the arrest of Florian. 

There is something so very strange in it, and 

■ 

the consequences were so deadly, that it may 
not be unplcasing to detail the incidents. I 
find them stated in the rough copy of a me¬ 
morial or petition in the shape of a letter, 
which Florian wrote in prison to one of the 
Deputies of his acquaintance. When I read 
it, I could scarcely check my tears :—those 
who will read it after me will shed some, too, 
if they are not quite destitute of feeling. I 
well know that many people will blame Flo¬ 
rian for not having evinced more firmness, 
and suffering himself in some measure to be 
overwhelmed and weighed down by the weight 
of the injustice; but if weakness of character 
is a fault, it is not always a crime. It springs 
from sensibility, and claims indulgence. 


XXXII 


THE LETTER. 

u Citizen Representative! 

You cherish, you cultivate, letters; but 
Liberty and your Country still more. You re¬ 
quire that the Arts, to whom you were a friend 
from infancy, should be made useful to the cause 
of the people for whom you wish to die. ; Tis on 
that title alone I address you. 

Meditating for a long time back on amending 
the ancient history for a national education, I ac¬ 
quainted the Committee of Public Safety of my 
intentions, by a memorial I addressed to them. 
I spoke of myself in a moment when a timid man, 
who had the slightest reproach to charge himself 
with, would have been only anxious that he should 
be forgotten. Calm and tranquil as to this step, 

I laboured on in my retirement, and had already 
finished several articles upon Egypt, when a sud¬ 
den order of the Committee of Public Safety caus¬ 
ed me to be put under a state of arrest in the pri¬ 
son of Port Libre. I have now continued twenty 
days; to say nothing of the long nights, which 
differ only from the days from the want of light, 
without books, almost without paper;—in the 
midst of six hundred persons;—in vain calling to my 


xxxiii 

? 

assistance the imagination I formerly possessed, and 
finding nothing in its place but sorrow and dejection. 

I wish, however, to he employed. I have con¬ 
ceived the plan of a work* which I think useful to 
the public morals: even in my prison I have cele¬ 
brated the Hero of Liberty. I send you my first 
Book: I ask your opinion of it. 

If you are not of opinion that the Poem may 
strengthen in the breasts of the youthful part of 
the French nation the love of the Republic, and 
the respect for simple manners, do not answer me; 
let me die here. The alteration in my state of 
health gives me hopes that will soon he the case. 

If your civism and your taste, abstracted from 
all interest for me, persuade yon that my work 
should be finished, speak to your colleagues Mem¬ 
bers of the Committee of Public Safety, and say 
to them— 

“ Of what can that man be guilty who dreaded 
being shut up in the Bastile for the first verses 
which he wrote in the ‘ Vassal of Mount Jura?' — 
who wrote before the Revolution the eleventh Book 
o i Niana ?—and who since the Revolution, free, 
unincumbered, without other fortune than his ta- 

* Ilis Poem of William Tell. 


XXXIV 


Ients, which he could transport to any clime, has 
not for an instant quitted his country; command¬ 
ed three years in the National Guards; written 
many books; and, in his collection of Fables, 
printed that of the Monkies and the Leopard? 

“ Can a writer of fables, a simple shepherd, he 
w ho sang the loves of Galatea and Estelle, can he 
be guilty of a crime ? The Lyre of Phedra—the 
Pipe of Gessner—too soft, no doubt, in the midst 
of warlike sounds, can they be displeasing to those 
who wish to establish freedom on the basis of mo¬ 
rality ? The linnet which warbled forth its notes 
near the Lernian Marsh, when Hercules engaged 
the Hydra, excited not the hero's wrath; nay, per¬ 
haps, when the victory was gained, lie listened to 
it with the greater pleasure." 

To these few words do 1 now and shall re¬ 
duce my sole defence. If they believe me guilty, 
let them judge me; but, if I am innocent, let them 
restore me to my liberty, to my w ritings, to my 
w orks now r ready for the press, and which my con¬ 
finement has prevented my putting the finishing 
hand to; let them restore me to my pure and 
harmless life, and the desire of being still useful to 
any country." 


XXXV 


It was thus that the mild and soothing 
voice of Florian sought to strike the ears of 
those odious tyrants, who then held France 
in base subjection. The ninth of Thermidor 
hastened the effect of the solicitations of Flo¬ 
rian and his friends : he left the prison some 
time after that memorable day; and he hast¬ 
ened to leave Paris, to go and live quietly in 
the country. His chief object was to breathe 
a purer air, and make himself be forgotten. 
He had imbibed a degree of melancholy which 
rendered solitude more dear to him than ever. 
Whether it was that the idea of the injustice 
he had experienced had preyed upon his mind 
so as to affect his health ; whether it was that 
the foul air and coarse food of the prison left 
the seeds of a dangerous malady; it was not 
long before he took to his bed, from which he 
never arose. 

The tenor of Florian’s life indicated a long 
career : his temperance and sobriety gave hopes 
that he would be a long time preserved to 
Friendship and to Letters. Although rather 
below the middle size, he was strongly made. 


XXXVI 


His face was not handsome; but the serenity, 
the gaiety, which shone in it; his full black 
eyes, sparkling with fire, which gave an ex¬ 
pression of animation to the toute ensemble of 
his countenance; rendered it striking and 
agreeable. He died at Seaux, in a small 
apartment which he occupied, at the Orangery, 
before he reached his fortieth year. 

J 

At any other time, the death of the author 
of Estelle, Galatea, Kuma, Gonzaluo, and 
William Tell, would have been ranked amongst 
the most particular occurrences of the day: 
poets would have written elegies upon his un¬ 
timely fate, and the literary societies would 
have resounded with his eulogies, and be¬ 
wailed the loss which learning had sustained. 
But, at the period when Florkm died, men 
were wholly occupied with politics and grief: 
each had some personal tears to shed to the 
memory ^of murdered friends or kinsmen; and 
the death of Flonan, scarcely noticed in a 
few of the journals of the day, was, with 
them, forgotten. 


WILLIAM TELL; 


OR, 

SWISSERLAND DELIVERED. 

BOOK FIRST. 


F R I ENDS of Liberty ! magnanimous Hearts! 
souls of Sensibility! ye, who know how to die 
for your independence, and live only for your 
brethren, lend an ear to my accents. Come! hear 
how one single man, born in an uncivilised clime, 
in the midst of a people curbed beneath the rods 
of an oppressor, by his individual courage raised 
this people, so abased, and gave it a new being; 
instructed it in its rights—Rights, sacred and inali¬ 
enable—which Nature had unfolded, but which 
Ignorance and Despotism had so long concealed, 

R 





o 



This man, the Child of Nature, proclaimed the 
laws of his Mother—armed himself to maintain 
them—awoke his compatriots slumbering beneath 
the weight of their galling chains—put into their 
hands the ploughshare, changed by him into the 
Sword of Heroes—vanquished and dispersed the 
cohorts which the tyrants opposed to him—and in 
a barbarous age, amidst rocks and mountains 
deemed almost uninhabitable, founded a retreat 
for those two Daughters of Heaven and comforters 
of the earth—Reason and Virtue. 

I invoke not thee to-day, O Poesy divine! thou, 
whom I have adored from earliest infancy; thou, 
whose brilliant fictions formed my chief felicity; 
preserve thy magic pencil for the Heroes whose 
portraits need embellishment. Thy ornaments 
would but disparage him whom now I wish to ce¬ 
lebrate; thy garlands would but ill become his 
countenance intrepid: his look, serene yet terri¬ 
ble, would soften too much under thy hands. 
Fear to touch his wild and native pomp; leave 
him his rustic garb—leave him his bow of yew— 
let him wander alone across the rocks, and on the 
margin of the blue torrent: follow him from afar, 



with reverence and with fear; and, with a timid 
trembling hand, scatter in the paths that he lias 
trodden the flowers wild of Eglantine. 

In the centre of ancient Helvetia, in that coun¬ 
try so renowned for the valour of its inhabitants, 
three Cantons, whose narrow limits are closed on 
every side by rocks and mountains almost inac¬ 
cessible, had preserved those simple manners 
which the Creator of the World gave at first to 
man, as his best protection against vice,—labour, 
frugality, good faith, simplicity, and all the vir¬ 
tues pursued by conquerors, the Kings of the 
earth, concealed themselves behind these mount¬ 
ains. They were long unknown, nor yet com¬ 
plained of their happy obscurity. Liberty at 
length seated herself on the summit of their rocks; 
and from that fortunate hour, the true Sage, the 
true Hero, never pronounces but with respect and 
reverence, the names of Uri, Schueitz, and Under¬ 
paid. 

The inhabitants of these three Cantons, perpe¬ 
tually occupied with rural labours, escaped for 
several ages those crimes, those miseries, produced 
by ambition, by the quarrels, by the guilty frenzy 


4 


of those numerous barbarian chiefs, who on the 
ruins of the Roman empire founded a multitude 
of states, usurped the rights of man, governed by 
a code of horror, reduced by ignorance in favour 
of tyranny and superstition. Forgotten, contemn¬ 
ed perhaps, by these despoilers of the world, the 
labourers, the herdsmen of Uri, partially submit¬ 
ted to those new Cmsars, and yet bore the consol¬ 
ing name of being free: they preserved their an¬ 
cient laws, their customs, and their simple man¬ 
ners. Tranquil, sovereign masters in their peace¬ 
ful cottages, the fathers of families grew old in 
peace, surrounded by respect and love: their chil¬ 
dren, ignorant of evil, fearing God, obeying their 
father, knew no other happiness, no other desire, 
no other hope, than that of resembling the good 
man from whom they received their being; to 
obey and to imitate him, formed the circle of their 
life. This people, simple and virtuous, almost 
forgotten or unknown to the world, remained alone 
with Nature, protected by their poverty, continued 
to be good, and were as yet unpunished. 

Not far from Allorff , their capital, on the mar¬ 
gin of the lake which gives its name to the town, a 


0 


mountain rears its lofty head, from whence the tra* 
veller, fatigued with the long and painful journey* 
surveys a multitude of valleys, unequally bordered 
by rocks and hills. Gentle streams, rapid tor¬ 
rents, now falling in cascades and bounding o'er the 
rocks, now meandering beneath a bed of moss, de¬ 
scending slow, or urging precipitate their way, at 
length reach the vallies, mingle and unite their 
streams, water the extensive pastures covered with 
Hocks and herds immense; then lose themselves in 
the limpid lake, in which the Bull delights to lave. 

On the summit of this mountain stood a poor cot¬ 
tage in the centre of a small field, a vineyard, and 
an orchard. A labourer, a Hero, who as yet knew 
not himself, and whose heart on!v confessed the 
love of his country, William Tell , scarcely twenty 
years of age, received from his father this inherit¬ 
ance. “ My son," said the old man on the bed of 
death, “ I have laboured, I have lived. Sixty 
winters have shed their snows upon this peaceful 
cottage, without vice ever having dared to cross 
the threshold of my door, without ever having one 
night's rest broken by remorse. Labour like me, 
my son; like me, chuse a virtuous wife, whose 


6 


love, confidence, soft and patient friendship, will 
double all thy innocent pleasures, and share each 
grief and pain. Marry then, my dear William: a 
virtuous man unmarried is but half virtuous.— 
Farewell! moderate thy grief. Death is easy for 
the good man. When I sent thee to carry Fruits 
to our brethren, the Bread which they wanted, 
didst thou not feel pleasure in rendering me an ac¬ 
count of the good actions with which I had charg¬ 
ed thee ? Even so, my boy, I am going to render 
an account to my Heavenly Father of the good 
actions with which he charged me so long ago: 
lie will receive me, my son, as i received thee; and 
near him shall I expect thee. Do good on the 
spot where I leave thee ; be good as thou art free: 
but if ever a tyrant dares to infringe in the least on 
our ancient liberty, William, die for thy country, 
and thou shalt find how sweet thy death will be." 

Deep sunk his words into the feeling soul of 
Tell. After having rendered the last duties to 
his venerable sire, after having dug his grave 
at the foot of a willow near his cottage, he 
swore to himself (and never did he violate the 
oath) to go alone every evening to the sacred 


7 


tomb of las father, to recall every action, every 
thought of the preceding day, and demand 
of his father’s shade, if he were contented with 
his son. 

O! how many Virtues did he owe to this 
pious obligation!—how much the fear of blushing 
in interrogating the paternal shade, accustomed 
his soul of fire to vanquish and subdue his passions! 
—Master of his most ardent desires—-turning even 
their violence to the profit of wisdom. Tell, heir 
of his father's little all, imposed on himself labours 
vet more hard ; obtained from the earth a double 
harvest of which the poor partook. He arose 
with the dawn of dav, and, sustaining with a 
vigorous arm the extremity of a plough which 
two oxen drew with difficulty, he buried the 
shining iron in a flinty soil, hastened the sluggish 
animals with the goad, and, his brow covered with 
sweat, only sought repose at the close of day to 
mourn the fate of those unfortunate neighbours, 
who were not possessed of a plough. This idea 
occupied his mind, as he led his oxen home, nor 
did it leave him during the hours of rest; and 
often in the morning, with the first peep of An- 


8 


rora's beams, Tell went and laboured in the fields 
of his indigent friends, sowed them with grain 
during their absence, and concealed it from them ; 
not to deprive them of the pleasure of grateful 
thanks, but to spare himself that gratitude arising 
from his beneficence towards his equals:—these 
were his cares, these his relaxations, these his 
pleasures. To labour and to do good, formed 
both his occupation and repose. 

Nature, in endowing William with a soul so 
pure, accompanied her gift with muscular strength 
and extreme activity:—he was taller by the head 
than the tallest of his companions; he scoured the 
rocks alone; braved the dashing torrent; darted 
across the frozen crags; and took the chamois 
in its flight. By strength of arm lie pulled down 
the mountain oak on which the axe had made but 
slight impression, and on his shoulders bore it 
entire with its immense branches. On the holi¬ 
days, in the midst of the games celebrated by the 
young archers, TtU, w ho had no equal at the bow, 
was compelled to remain an idle spectator, in 
order that the prizes might be contended for: he 
was placed, notwithstanding his youth, amongst 


9 


the old men sealed to award: there, trembling 
with the honour, motionless and scarcely breathing, 
his eyes followed the rapid arrow; applauded with 
transport the archer who was nearest to the mark; 
and his arms, perpetually extended, seemed anxious 
to embrace a rival worthy of himself: but when 
their quivers were exhausted, and the mountain 
dove as yet remained untouched ; when the bird, 
tired with fluttering, reposed on the summit of the 
pole, and regarded with a tranquil eye the ellorts 
of her powerless enemies, William alone arose— 
William took his bow of yew; gathered three arrows 
from the ground. With the first he struck the pole, 
and made the pigeon flutter; with the second he cut 
the string which retained her painful flight; the 
third sought her in the air, and brought her 
breathless at the feet of the astonished Judges. 

Without priding himself on so many advantages, 
preferring, to the most brilliant success, the most 
obscure of good actions. Tell reproached himself 
with his tardiness in obeying the commands of his 
Father. Tell determined to marry, and young 
Emma attracted his affections. Emma was the 
most chaste, the most beautiful of all the daughters 

B 2 


10 


T)f Uri :—The zephyr sporting on the rose lea£— 
the source filtering through the rock, each brilliant 
drop of which reflected the first rays of light, was 
less pure than the heart of Emma. Peace, softness, 
reason, had chosen her soul for their sanctuary: 
her virtue, though she was a stranger even to the 
name, was to her existence ; nor could she compre¬ 
hend how one could cease to be good, without 
ceasing to be. 

An Orphan, and without fortune, educated from 
her infancy in the cottage of an old man, the only 
surviving relation of her indigent family, Emma 
kept his flocks. Ere Aurora illumined the tops 
of the sombre willow, Emma was on the moun¬ 
tains, surrounded by her sheep, and spinning a 
dress for her benefactor: she returned with the 
shades of evening, arranged the cottage, prepared 
the repast of the night and that of the morrow, 
and spared the feeble old man the necessity of 
wanting any thing whilst she was absent: she then 
surrendered herself to rest, satisfied with the pre¬ 
ceding day; happy in having acquitted herself of 
the sweet claims of gratitude, and confident that 
the morrow'would yield her an equal pleasure. 


1! 


Tell knew her; he loved her. Tell did not 
•employ those attentive cares, that complaisance, 
that art, a stranger to his soul, which so often 
profanes love by combining it with finesse ; which 
knows how to precipitate or retard the confession 
of a tender sentiment. A stranger to this study; 
ignorant that the gift of pleasing could exist dis¬ 
tinct from the pleasure of loving; Tell never sought 
occasion to see Emma more often: he did not 
follow her to the mountains ; he did not wait with 
anxiety for her return in the evening ; on the con¬ 
trary, during her absence he went to visit her aged 
benefactor. There, in long conversations, in which 
freedom, truth, and the unrestrained emotions of 
the soul, presided, William listened to the old man, 
who delighted to speak of Emma; related the most 
trilling of her actions—repeated all her expressions 
—recounted, with tears in his eyes, her patience, 
that inexhaustible goodness which rendered this 
orphan every day more dear to him. These praises, 
which sunk to the bottom of the soul of Tell, 
augmented his affection far more than the sight 
of his beloved : she arrived during those recitals; 
and Tell read on her brow of meekness, in her soft 


and tranquil smile, in her artless, modest mien, all 
that he had heard. He scarcely dared in trembling 
accents address a few words to her; soon left her 
with downcast eyes ; saluted her with respect; and 
retired with tardy step to his solitary rest, there 
to surrender himself to the endearing thought! 
of Emma, more than he could in her presence. 

At length, after six months were passed away, 
William felt confident that his love was at least a 
virtue: he resolved to tell her that lie loved her, but, 
alas! lie w ? as unable to do this when alone; there¬ 
fore, taking an opportunity when they were re¬ 
turning from public worship, and surrounded by 
the people, he whispered Emma—“ I love thee 
much; I honour thee still more. I was good; 
you have made me sensible. If thou think- 
est that thou canst he happy with me, receive my 
heart and hand. Come, dwell in my cottage; 
and on the grave of my beloved Father will I teach 
thee those virtues he taught me.” Emma hung 
dow n her head, and for the first time she felt the 
rising blush: presently she recovered the tranquil 
purity of her countenance, and, confident that she 
w as hound in duty to express her feelings, “ Wib 


13 


liam/’ replied she, “ I am much flattered by thy 
choice. Ever happy in my peaceful station, I feel 
it will be augmented by having the privilege of de¬ 
claring in return, that thou also art the object of my 
affection/' She gave him her hand :—Tell pressed 
it between his own. They gazed upon each other 
with silent and mutual looks of love, and in the 
eloquence of the eyes vowed eternal fealty to each 
other. 

This union fixed the abode of Happiness in the 
cottage of TelL Labour was now sweeter, be¬ 
cause Emma culled the fruits: every good action 
became doubly interesting, because Emma shared 
it.—Seldom asunder, they only parted for a few 
hours, to meet again with increase of rapture: their 
pleasures were tranquil, their love without the 
violence of momentary passion which ere long 
dwindles into disgust or hatred ; they moderated 
their transports by pleasures more durable, by 
friendship, by confidence, by mutual esteem, and 
the fear which true affection always dreads of 
being unable to render each worthy of the other. 
Tiiese efforts rendered their souls more virtuous, 
more refined; meliorated every image of the mind. 


14 

and caused a sweet exchange of thought and sent! 
inent. 

A Son crowned their wishes and their hopes, 
was the pledge of mutual felicity, and formed a 
source of pleasure and happiness to which they were 
before strangers. The sweetly smiling babe, to 
whom they gave the name of Albert, was nursed 
in the lap of a fond mother till he reached his 
sixth year, when his father took charge of him him¬ 
self : he led him to the fields; shewed him the mea¬ 
dows and the waving corn; then explained to him 
their utility; shewed him the mountains, the forests 
and the rivers; then, bidding him look upwards, 
taught him to pronounce with awful reverence the 
sublime name of the Almighty! He told him that 
this God was present every where; that he was the 
witness and the judge of every thought and every 
action; that he only desired men to be good to 
make them eternally happy. Every morning and 
every evening he repeated these precepts: he ex¬ 
plained by his own example what it was to be good ; 
and, without regard to his infancy, and the weak¬ 
ness of his frame, he led him through the snows and 
over the fields of ice; exercised his young anus in 


15 


lifting the yokes of the oxen; taught him to ap¬ 
proach these formidable animals without fear, to 
hold the plough, and guide it. 

Inured to toils while in the field, the tenderness 
of his years was forgotten, and he was no longer 
timid and effeminate unless when he returned 
home: then he ran to the arms of a fond delighted 
mother, embraced her, and with filial affection 
consulted her countenance that he might anticipate 
every wish of her bosom; and ere it could be ex¬ 
pressed he hastened to perform it. O how often 
has this dear boy by his little affectionate attentions 
rendered his good mother supremely blest! how 
often in the absence of Tell , whose austere counte¬ 
nance suppressed in the bosom of Emma the fond¬ 
ness of maternal love, did she press her lovely boy 
to her heart! “ My dear Albert,” she repeated in 
the ecstacy of maternal love, “ my boy ! my only 
boy! my life is linked with thine: 'tis in thy soul, 
my sweet infant, that mine exists. Know it, recol¬ 
lect it always, my child, my dear child ; but before 
thy Father feign to be ignorant how much I love 
thee.” 

TeU joined to so many sources of pleasure ano- 


16 


ther equally important in prosperity or adversity— 
Tell possessed a friend: this friend, nearly of his 
own age, dwelt among the rocks which separate 
Uri from Underwald. The similarity of their 
souls, and not their persons, had united them in the 
bonds of friendship from the earliest period of their 
youth. Melctal, brave, virtuous, and gene¬ 
rous, the counterpart of Tell; his soul glowed 
with enthusiasm in the cause of liberty and virtue : 
this enthusiasm was not capable of deep reflection, 
but concentered in a focus, glowed with ardour, 
and burst forth with impetuosity. lie was equal 
to the greatest actions ; but, then, they were mo¬ 
mentary : he was incapable of digesting a design of 
magnitude, unless it could be carried into imme¬ 
diate execution. Melctal, passionate and resolute, 
was unable to conceal his sentiments;. but the mo¬ 
ment his bosom framed them, his lips gave them 
utterance, and the transport ( f passion was over. 
Tell, on the contrary, was of a disposition silent and 
reserved: he repressed his sentiments; cherished 
them in his bosom; reviewed, corrected, digested, 
and matured them, without permitting either his 
countenance or his tongue to be the index of what 


17 


was passing in his soul. Each abhorred injustice; 
hut the one burst forth like the rolling thunder, 
and braved every danger to punish it; while the 
other, silent and calm, waited for the moment 
when he might command success. Melctal was 
the mighty torrent w hich overthrew r every obstacle 
in its way, until its force w as spent. Tell was 
the rivulet w hich meandered almost unseen through 
the meadow, until the gradual influx of other 
streams sw elled it into a powerful river: he resem¬ 
bled the accumulated snows of many winters, 
which, the solar heat, having detached from the 
craggy cliffs, sw eeps all before it in its progress to 
the plain. 

Melctal and Tell often crossed the short dist¬ 
ance at which they lived from each other, to pass 
together those days which were devoted to repose 
and quiet: they enjoyed them alternately at each 
other’s cottage, and looked forward to the next 
meeting with pleasure. Sometimes the virtuous 
Emma, with her husband and her son, carried to 
Melctal milk and the first fruits of their vineyard 
and orchard. Sometimes Melctal went, his aged 
sire leaning on his arm, and in his hand his daugh- 


28 


ter, tiie only pledge which remained of an aflect- 
ionate wife, whose loss he still bewailed. Tell 
waited their arrival at the door: a bench was ready 
for the old man, and Emma presented him with a 
cup of wine; whilst the young Albert, whose anxi¬ 
ous eyes beheld them from afar, prepared a nose¬ 
gay for the little Clara, MelctaV s lovely daughter. 
Oli! how pure and sweet were the pleasures they 
tasted together ! what delights they felt around the 
rustic table! As soon as their frugal repast was 
finished, old Melctaf, in spite of the burden of 
eighty years, without any other support than his 
gtick, gained the loftiest summit of the mountain: 
there, seating himself in the midst of his friends and 
children, he uncovered his venerable head, to re¬ 
ceive on his hoary locks the .cheering warmth of 
the solar beam; and, when his satisfied eyes had 
delighted themselves with this view of Nature, this 
spectacle which enchanted him, which transported 
him in as lively a manner as in the bloom of youth, lie 
then began to talk of his former years, his pains, his 
pleasures, the miseries attached to human life, tin- 
consolations which we always find in our conscience 
and in virtue. Tell, Melctal, Emma, listened with 


1 9 


Attentive respect. Clara and Albert, seated near the 
old man, now looked at him with affection, and now 
pressed his hand. A single glance from William a 
eye brought the blush of innocence into their 
cheeks, and the old man, perceiving it, made ex¬ 
cuses for them to William. 

Clara and Albert grew together, and their inno¬ 
cent loves followed the progress of their years: al¬ 
ready the happy days they passed together came 
too seldom for their wishes. Albert, during the 
long weeks which rolled away without seeing his 
Clara, sought and invented pretexts to leave his 
fathers cottage, and fly to that of Clara: some¬ 
times he came to tell Melctal that a bear had ap¬ 
peared on the mountain, and that the flocks were 
threatened ; then he would go and inform him, 
that during the preceding evening the north wind 
had blighted the young buds of the vines. Melc¬ 
tal listened to him with a smile; thanked him for 
his cares and his attentive friendship. Clara hast¬ 
ened to present him with a bow l of milk: Albert, 
in seizing the bow l, clasped in his hands those of 
Clara, carried them with it to his lips, till the re¬ 
freshing liquid was exhausted. Albert drank it 


120 


slowly, with his eyes fixed on her he loved; and, 
satisfied with her smile, happy in the success of his 
expedients, he returned home to ponder on a new 
scheme for paying another visit. 

Tiius lived these two families; thus lived a peo¬ 
ple of brethren, for they formed but one family: 
nor age nor youth, nor wives nor husbands, knew a 
source of happiness or pleasure beyond the purity 
of friendship, innocence, love, labour, and equality. 
Alas! on a sudden the death of Rodolpho tore 
from them all that was dear, for it tore from them 
all these blessings. Rodolpho, raised by fortune 
to the throne of the Caesars, had always respected 
the liberty of the Swiss: his successor, the haughty 
Albert, exhibited the reverse of all Rodolpho's vir¬ 
tues. Proud of his vain titles, his immense domi¬ 
nions, which seemed to stretch over half the world, 
lie was indignant that a few shepherds, goatherds, 
labourers in the vineyards, should be exempted 
from the name of subjects. With gold he thought 
to purchase their liberty, vainly imagining that the 
execrable ore would render him master of those 
who had never bowed the knee or cringed at the 
feet of a tyrant. He looked around amongst the 


21 

fawning sycophants whose crimes render them 
by turns the dread and hope of tyrants: lie selected 
from among them one to conquer,— Gesler , the 
ruffian of the human race, and therefore the chosen 
favourite of the young emperor. 

Gesler , followed by the myrmidons of tyranny, 
nay the refuse of these myrmidons, established his 
throne of blood in the heart of Altorff; ever 
brooding over mischief, more impetuous to commit 
crimes than the miser eager to increase his hoard, 
waded in the blood of a free people. More diabo¬ 
lical than the arch fiend himself, Gesler racked 
liis brain to invent some new, some more horrid, 
engine of torture, which might prolong the already 
agonized spark of life to the latest moment. 
Trembling at the name of Liberty, and dreading 
every hour the reward of his atrocities, he swore to 
extinguish even the name of freedom. He suffer- 
ed his soldiers to commit every brutality, every 
crime, that the heart inured to vice, to rapine, and 
to plunder, from earliest infancy could conceive, or 
the mind led on by the blackest impulses could 
execute; and, setting the example himself, let loose 
his most hellish rage in the commission of every 


o& 


barbarity. The people complained in vain; then- 
cries were only heard, that a pretext might be af¬ 
forded for punishing them. Virtue and Liberty 
shuddered at the sight; they fled from the face of 
day, and concealed themselves in the peaceful cot¬ 
tages, where a daughter ruined, implored a mo¬ 
ther’s prayers to avenge her wrongs, a mother’s 
tears to soothe her aching breast; the labourer 
cursed the soil which yielded its produce only for 
tyranny and oppression. The aged parents of vir¬ 
tuous children implored Heaven that they might 
not survive the loss of all that was dear; they look¬ 
ed forward to death as to the first of blessings, 
the deliverer from the chains of tyranny. The air 
resounded with the shouts of monsters and the 
groans of those who perished ? the Sun hid his 
face; and a dark funereal cloud spread itself on 
the horizon of misery. 

From the moment that these mischiefs began. 
Tell conceived the project of redressing them. 
Without even acquainting Melclal of his designs, 
or hinting it to his family, his mind, always supe¬ 
rior to misfortune, walked in the thunder storm, 
and beheld the general wreck without dismay: lie 



!23 


prepared himself not to suffer, but to deliver his 
country. Crimes heaped on crimes, the demons 
yelled more horribly, and these Cantons fell with 
terror at the feet of Gesler. Yet William trem¬ 
bled not, for William’s soul never yet knew fear: 
he beheld the crimes of a tyrant with as serene an 
eye as lie would the rugged rocks o’er which 
he roamed, or look at the lowly briar surrounded 
by its thorns. Melctal , rash and impetuous, pour¬ 
ed out his fury before William: he listened, but 
answered not. No tears gushed from his eyes, no 
ruling passion swayed his countenance, nor unveil¬ 
ed the secrets of his soul. Tell loved his friend, 
but condemned the transports of his precipitate 
fury: he concealed his grief, that he might not 
imitate his sorrows; and remained master of his 
secret purpose until the time was ripe for execu¬ 
tion. Tranquil, inflexible in voice and manner, 
he spurned his child, and turned from his wife’s 

endearments. Before the accustomed hour he 

/ * 

arose; led the oxen to the pasture, where he had 
once laboured with pleasure: his goad fell from 
his hand; and, stopping suddenly in the middle of 
an ill-traced furrow, he folded his arms. Iiis 


/ 


head sunk upon his bosom, his eyes remained 
fixed on the ground; and thus, scarcely venturing 
to breathe, he measured in imagination, he calcu¬ 
lated the power of the haughty Gesler , and the 
means of destroying it; and (still in fancy) holding 
with equal hand the balance of reason, poised 
Geskr surrounded by banditti; surrounded by 
assassins, armed with unlimited power, and sup¬ 
ported by a mighty empire, with the efforts of a 
single man inspired by Liberty. 

One evening, when William and his wife were 
seated before their cottage, they beheld at some 
distance young Albert exerting all his strength 
against the bell-wether of the dock: the sight of 
this boy abandoning himself to the sweets of inno¬ 
cent joy, the idea of the dreadful miseries prepared 
for him by slavery, threw the feeling Tell into a 
profound reverie; and, for the first time in his life, 
a tear fell from his eyes. Emma beheld the agonies 
of his soul; she hesitated for a long time to speak 
to him: at length, yielding to the impulse of love, 
to the desire of partaking all the griefs of a beloved 
Spouse, she approached him, caught hold of his 
hand, and, looking earnestly in his face, said to him, 


55 


« 


w W hat have I done, my love, to merit this cold 
neglect ? what have I done to lose that confidence 
ol which I was so proud ? Thou dost suffer evils 
of which thy wife is ignorant: thou wishest that 
they should be more painful to her than to thy¬ 
self. For these fifteen ^ears past, thou knowest that 
my thoughts have always waited upon thine; thou 
knowest that I dared not believe in any happiness, 
to taste or feel it, until I experienced the sweet 
certainty that it came from thee. Alas! ’tis in 
vain I examine my heart: it has been, it is, it will 
always be, the same. Why, then, is thine no 
longer so? Nothing is changed in our home: my 
Husband, can lie be changed ? Look at our cot¬ 
tage:—'twas here we wooed, ’twas here we loved. 
Look at this field, cultivated by thyself, the pro¬ 
duce of which assures us ample subsistence, and 
wherewith to give to others. Behold the sweetly 
smiling moon rising behind our mountains, and an¬ 
nouncing to us as beautiful a day as that now 
departing. Contemplate our Son, my love, wiioee 
joy, whose innocent mirth, seems formed to excite 
our smiles, and demand that we should be happy, 
happy as he is himself. What is wanting, then? 

c 


26 


Oh, William! speak: my impatient soul, in antici¬ 
pation, wishes all thou canst desire/' 

9 

“ Emma," replied Tell , “ pronounce not the 
name of happiness, or thou wilt render more pain¬ 
ful the weight which hourly oppresses me.. How 
I lament for thee, unfortunate! if thou canst be¬ 
lieve in felicity, if thou canst count upon this hu¬ 
miliating repose, assured 'twas only by your ob¬ 
scurity, when Swisserland is enslaved; when the 
barbarous Gesler. that insolent emissary of a still 
more insolent despot, commands us, strikes us on 
the forehead with a rod of iron! Thou shewest 
me this harvest, produced by my labour :—Gesler 
with a word can ravage it from me. Thou sliew- 
est me this cottage, w here my fathers for three 
centuries past have practised virtue :—Gesler can 

tear it from me. This child whom I adore, 

% 

this portion of thyself, which occupying all my 
tenderness, yet redoubles it for thee,—this child 
depends on Gesler. My Field—my Wife—my 
Son—even the tomb of my honoured father—no¬ 
thing now is mine!—all, all, are the tyrant’s. 
The very air we breathe wafts only submissive to 
his will. Oh, height of ignominy!-a people 


27 


entire— a nation subject to the caprice of one man! 

—What do I say?—of a Man?.Oh, God! 

pardon me for having profaned the name of thy 
greatest, work. Humanity can have nothing in 
common with tyrants; she may be their victim, 
until the moment when, regaining her rights, she 
avenges in a single day the outrages of a thou¬ 
sand ages. This desire, this hope, animates me. 
My whole soul is insufficient for the grandeur of 
my designs : seek not to dissuade me from my pur¬ 
pose; seek not to soften my soul with thoughts of 
thee and Albert. A slave has no child—a slave 
has no wife. I am a slave, and Nature for me 
has ceased to be. Thy eyes, blinded by love, 
look with pleasure on this cottage; on this smiling 
spot, where we once were happy:— mine , opened 
by virtue, can behold nothing but that tower built 
on the summit of the rock to keep Uri in subjec¬ 
tion.” 

“ Do'st thou think,” replied Emma, “ that my 
heart, unworthy of thine, has not long shuddered at 
the very name of servitude,? do’st thou think that I 
could love Tell without detesting Tyrants ? Ah ! 
cease, my love, to condemn the sottness of temale 



23 


sensibility, which may appear only to be nursed by 
tender sentiments. Think, my love, that sensibility, 
though sometimes the mother of weakness, is more 
often that of the greatest virtues. lie who can weep 
at the sight of misery, at the recital of a good action, 
proves that he would comfort the one, and that he 
is capable of the other. Judge thy wife by thyself. 
—Are there two natures in us?—Thou adorest thy 
country : judge, then, whether I ought to love it, 
since 'tis at once both thine and mine. All the quali¬ 
ties of thy great soul are in my eyes more splendid, 
because they are thine:—without thee, I had been 
virtuous; in loving thee, I became doubly so. 
Speak, then, with confidence; unveil to me thy 
designs. My sex deprives me of the hope of offering 
thee a useful succour, but my sex does not hinder 
me from dying to second thee.*’ 

Tell at these words embraced Emma, and was 
preparing to unveil to her his soul, when shrieks 
mingled with sighs, were heard from the quarter 
of their cottage. Tell and his wife hastily arose; 
they perceived their son pale, covered with tears; 
his hands lifted towards heaven, and running to¬ 
wards them with terror.—“ Oh, father! father Y* 


29 


said he, in broken accents, “ come, come to his 
aid \—Melctal! . old Melctal! .the barba¬ 
rians have. ” As lie spoke, Clara appeared 

supporting the faltering steps of the unfortunate 
old man, his right hand leaning on his stick, and 
his left arm sustained by the inconsolable Clara: 
lie cried at each step, “ Tell! my dear Tell! where 
art thou V f stretching forth his hands to meet him; 
till his feet, stumbling against the flinty soil, com¬ 
pelled him to recover the support which he had 
only for a momeut quitted.—William ran, caught 
the old man in his arms—pressed him to his 
bosom—looked at him for an instant—gave a 
terrible shriek: his hair stood an end, to find on 
his venerable countenance only the bleeding traces 
of those eyes, of which the barbarians had deprived 
him. Seized with dread and horror. Tell receded 
from his embrace, nor stopped till a rock impeded 
his retrograde progress, against which he leaned, 
convulsed with horror. Emma swooned: Al¬ 
bert ran to her assistance; and Clara, calling to 
William, pointed to his notice the blind old man, 
looked up to Heaven, and wept. 

“ Thou fliest from me; my only friend, thou 





so 


fiiest from me,” cried Melctal in a faltering tone: 
“ thou fearest the blood which issues from my 
wounds. Oh, William! return, return, to my 
bosom; my heart yet remains; let me feel it beat 
and palpitate against thine; let me at least assure 
myself, in embracing thee, in touching thee, that 
the barbarians who have torn ont my eyes, have 
not torn from me my friend l” 

“ Pardon,” replied Tell , rushing into his arms, 
“ pardon the first emotions of pity and of horror. 
Oh, thou most virtuous of men! thy misfortunes 
cannot augment the respect I had for thee; but 
it augments my tenderness, it renders stronger and 
more sacred, the cords of affection which allied 
me to thee.—O tell me why? how? where? did 
those villains wound with crimes; where did they 
dare to raise their hands against virtuous old age ? 
What is become of Melctal? —Alas! he died in 
defending thee. If he yet sees the light, would 
he have abandoned thee ? could he have left thee 
in the care of a poor girl, who, alas! could do 
nothing else but weep!—But I will replace thy 
son; I will inherit both his tenderness and his 
revenge.” 


31 



“ Accuse not my son/' replied the old man : 

“ judge not thy friend without hearing him.—Set 
me down amongst you; let me feel thee at my 
side, William; let not Clara leave me; let thy Emma 
and Albert listen to me with attention!" 

They seated the old man < on a mossy hillock. 
Tell sate near him, Emma at his back, and sus¬ 
tained on her bosom the old man's head. Clara 
and Albert, at his knees, kissed his hand, and 
bathed it with their tears. 

“ Listen to me," said Melctal; “ restrain the 
transports of your tenderness, restrain those of 
your vengeance. This morning, at the very 
moment when the last sun which, alas! I shall 
ever see, gilded the tops of our mountains with his 
rising beams, my son, Clara, and myself, were in 
the fields. Clara assisted me to bind the sheaves; 
my son put them into the cart to which two heifers 
were yoked to draw the harvest home. On a sud¬ 
den a Soldier appeared, an emissary of the cruel 
Gesler. He came directlv t> us, trod on our 
corn, examined the cart, <and with an insolent hand 
unyoked the heifers.— r By what right/ said my 
son, ‘ do you take away these animals, my only 


property, my sole riches; those which support my 
family, and give to thy Governor the salary thou 
receivest?’—‘ Obey/ replied the soldier, ‘ and ques¬ 
tion not thy masters/—At these words I saw fury 
flaming in the eyes of my son: he seized the yoke 
of the heifers detached by the satellite, tore it 
from his hands, and, restrained by my cries, ‘ Bar¬ 
barian/ said he, ‘ thank my Father: bis voice, 
more powerful in the heart of his son than the 
w rath of justice, prevents me from ridding the 
earth of an enemy to humanity.—Fly, coward ! 
Fly, lest this field should be the tomb of a vile 
agent of tyranny/ 

“ The soldier was already out of sight: I held 
Melctal in my arms.—* My son/ said I, * in the 
name of heaven, in the name of thy father and thy 
child, protect thyself: this instant fly from the 
vengeance of Gesler. —I know him ; he is implaca¬ 
ble ; he will bathe himself in thy blood, and w ith it 
empurple the grey hairs of thy father. Spare me, 
my son, my dear son ! save my life in saving thine / 

“ ‘ No, Father/ replied he with the accents of 
piety, of vengeance, and despair. “ No, never 
will I leave you. Fd rather die in your defence. 




33 


than tremble a moment for your safety. Gesler 
and all his power shall not tear me from the arms 
of him who gave me being. I will, I ought. r 

“ ‘ Obey me/ interrupted I, in a tone severe.— 
* I have nothing to fear: leave me to guard thy 
cottage and thy daughter; leave me the care of 
preserving her father and her heritage. Go; 
conceal thyself a few days in the mountains of 
Underpaid. Clara and I will come to thee when 
the storm is over. Go, fly; this instant fly! I 
pray thee—I command thee —I insist on it as thy 
Father/ 

“ At these words the fiery Melctal bowed his 
head in sadness; he kneeled at my feet, bade 
adieu, and requested my benediction. I pressed 
him to my heart; I bathed him with my tears. 
Clara threw herself on his bosom; Clara wiped 
off with her kisses the tears which tier unfortunate 
father in vain endeavoured to conceal. Immedi¬ 
ately tearing himself from his daughter, he deli¬ 
vered her into my care, pressed my hand, and 
parted, without turning hack his head. 

“ Clara and I, left alone, returned to our cot¬ 
tage ;—my intention was to go immediately to the 

C ‘2 



'34 


tyrant in Aitorff; to see him, and personally con¬ 
vince myself whether every sentiment of justice 
was a stranger to his soul. Alone, I determined 
to expose myself to his formidable presence; to 
obtain the return of my son, or die in asking it: 

—but on a sudden I found my cottage surrounded 
by a band of soldiers, all calling out for Melctal. 
They interrogated me, pressed me to discover his 
retreat, loaded me with chains, and dragged me 
before Gesler. ‘ Where is thy Son]' said he, in a 
voice sombre and savage. * Thou slialt either ex¬ 
piate his crime in his stead, or deliver him up to ' 
my vengeance.' ‘ Strike,' said I: ‘I thank God 
that I owe to a barbarian the pleasure of giving 
life twice to my son .'—Gesler viewed me with a 
fixed eye, which displayed at once a cool thirst of 
blood, and an embarrassment to discover a punish¬ 
ment proportioned to my years: at length, after a 
long silence, he made a sign to his executioners; 
and these monsters, before him, without his even 
averting his eye, without even the smile of crime 
certain of impunity, quitting his ferocious counte¬ 
nance, seized me, threw me down, and with 
a sharp instrument tore my eyeballs from their 
sockets! It 


35 


* r ‘ It is enough/ said Gesler: * let the debilitated 
old wretch live. Release him; let him go and 
seek his son/—They led me forth; they pushed 
me out of the palace gate. I walked with my 
arms extended—I fell into those of Clara; of 
Clara, who had followed me, and whom the cruel 
satellites had retained at the outposts. I felt my¬ 
self pressed to her bosom—I felt myself bathed 
with her tears: I heard, mingled with her cries of 
grief, this word, this name, so sweet to my soul,— 
* My father !—my father!-it is 1!’—I endea¬ 

voured to restrain her cries—I calmed her—I con¬ 
cealed my sorrows—I begged her to lead me to 
my friend, to the friend of my Son. ‘ We are on 
our way thither/ she replied. My heart told me 

so. You spoke—we are arrived!-O, my dear 

William!—Alas! I can no longer see thee; but I 
feel thee near me—I press thy hand in mine!— 
Ah! how it trembles at the recital of my sulfer- 

ings!-My Son is saved—my Friend remains !— 

Thank Heaven, I have not lost my all!” 

f 

END OF THE FIRST BOOK. 





BOOK SECOND. 


THUS spoke the old man. As soon as 
he had finished his narrative, Emma, Clara, and 
Albert, threw themselves on his neck, drowned his 
recital with their sobs, and bathed him with their 
tears. Tell remained motionless, his forehead sup¬ 
ported on one hand, his looks fixed on the earth: 
the big tears fell drop by drop from his half closed 
eyes; his bosom, oppressed with a weighty load, 
respired with difficulty; the hand which supported 
his head trembled with convulsive horror. After 
a long and mournful silence, he suddenly started 
from his seat, embraced the blind old man, press¬ 
ed him tw ice to his palpitating heart; endeavoured 
to speak, but could only pronounce with a stifled 
voice—“ My father! thou shah he avenged.” 

After tiiese words, William relapsed into his 
former reverie. Sullen, silent, gloomy, and ab- 





37 


sorbed in thought, he examined, weighed afresh 
that which he had already examined; and, pre¬ 
sently resuming the powers of speech, he asked 
the old man, in a calm and settled voice, whether 
he knew where Melctal was concealed. “ Yes,” 
replied the unfortunate sire, “ my son is hid in the 
deep caverns of the mountain of Faigel: those 
rocks, desart and nearly inaccessible, are yet un¬ 
known to the emissaries, the satellites of the ty¬ 
rant. Melctal has promised, has sworn to me, not 
to leave it but with my consent."—“ Give him 
back his promise," replied Tell; “ I request it for 
him: and thou, my son, prepare thyself to leave 
hence on the instant. Thou must walk all night: 
by break of day thou w ilt reach the mountain of 
Faigel. Seek Melctal —tarry not until thou hast 
discovered him. Thou wilt tell him this: Thy 
friend has sent one to thee to inform thee of new 
crimes committed by the execrable Gesler: he has- 
torn out thy Father's eyes.—William sends thee 
this poniard." 

Tell then took from his girdle a dagger which 
he had never parted with. Albert approached in 
silence and respect to receive the pointed steel at 


3 8 


his father’s hands, and concealed it in his bosom. 
Emma and Clara, trembling, did not dare to inter¬ 
rogate William: they looked at Albert, then at 
each other, and feared to evince their inquietude 
for the perils he was about to encounter. Old 
Melctal , astonished at the order lie had heard, 
asked Tell what were his designs. “ Thy son 
knows them,” replied William; “ and the sight of 
this poniard alone will tell him all he ought to do. 
The moments now are precious: we must not lose 
them. I have only one word to say—- Father , 
thou shall he avenged ” 

He then took Albert by the hand, and led him 
in silence to his father's tomb: there, after having 
received his oath, he confided to him a part of his 
projects, developed his resources, and instructed 
him in detail what he should say to Melctal. 

They both returned animated by a generous 
hope. Albert was ready for his journey; Clara 
begged to accompany him: she wished to go and 
embrace her father; to carry him fruits, bread, 
and those other necessaries of life which he want¬ 
ed in the mountains; and old Henry permitted it. 
Emma filled a wicker basket with provisions, add- 


ed milk and wine, gave the basket to her son, 
pressed him to her bosom, bade him farewell, 
embraced him once again, and requested Clara in 
a low and trembling voice to watch over a son so 
dear. Albert, armed with a staff shod with iron, 
which his father explained the use of, placed the 
basket cm his head, offered his arm to Clara; and 
in this maimer they departed, like tw o young faw ns 
emerging from the darkest recesses of the thicket 
to seek more open pasture. 

William beheld them go; he was clad in his 
hunting vest, made of the skin of a savage w olf 
which he had himself destroyed : this habit, fast¬ 
ened to his body by a broad belt, formed also a 
covering for his head, w here the teeth of the ani¬ 
mal fell'down and glistened on his forehead. His 
legs were protected by buskins made of bear skin; 
a leathern quiver tilled with pointed arrows hung 
over his shoulder; and in his hand he bore that' 
formidable bow which he never vet bent in vain. 
Leaning on this bow, regarding Emma with a mild 
vet determined countenance, “ My wife,” said he, 
“ I am about to leave you, even on the instant. 
I leave in your hands the father of my friend, this? 


40 


respectable old man, whom I honour as my own. 
Watch over his slumbers; attend him by day and 
night; succour him, comfort him; assuage his 
pains and sorrows. Endeavour to acquit your¬ 
self of the duties which we owe to misery, to age, 
to friendship. I will soon return: two days will 
be sufficient for my purpose. Acquaint no one of 
my absence; and let the door of our cottage he 

closed till mv return/' 

%/ 

He spoke, and left the cottage; and with a ra¬ 
pid, hasty pace took a different road from Albert. 

Meantime Clara and Albert descended the 
mountain to gain one of the narrow paths that 
led to Underwakl: they took a circuit above 
Altorff; rapped at the door of a fisherman, a friend 
of 717/, and requested him to put them across 
the lake. The good man hastened to serve his 
young friends, quickly launched his boat, offered 
his hand to help them in, and, taking the oars, 
he struck the transparent wave with equal and 
sturdy strokes. Landed on the opposite shore, 
they thanked the friendly boatman, and ascended 
the barren rocks which on every side surrounded 
the lake. Clara wanted, in turn, to share the 


weight of the load with Albei t, but he would not 
consent to it: at length, after an affectionate strug¬ 
gle, they shared it, and, joining their hands under 
the handle of the basket, they slowly trod the nar¬ 
row path; now regarding each other with silent 
looks of love, now stopping as if to take breath, 
that they might have the longer time to converse 
more freely. 

The moon had already disappeared; already 
had the morning, slow to rise in these cold regions/ 
begun to shed her silver beams over the shining 
pinnacles of the snow-clad mountains, when our 
young travellers reached the foot of lofty Faigel. 
They ascend the steep, and searched every where 
if they could discover any goatherd, any peasant, 
who could point out to them the solitary cave 
where Melctal lay concealed. No human beings, 
save themselves, appeared among these desert rocks. 
In vain they stretched their sight to its utmost 
power of vision: nothing was seen but fields of 
ice; the chamois suspended on the brow of the 
precipice, or bounding from rock to rock, with 
the velocity of the eagle, at the sight of their 
dost rover, man. 

1/ J 


42 


About the eighth hour a slight smoke ascend¬ 
ing from among the rocks, attracted the eyes 
of Albert, who instantly pointed it out to 
Clara: they flew towards the spot whence the 
smoke issued, springing over the frozen chasms, 
traversing thick woods of firs, and arrived at 
the cavern, which having entered, they perceived 
at the extremity a twinkling flame. A man was 
seated before the fire, which he supplied with dry 
branches of fir: at the noise they made in entering, 
he turned round, quickly sprung upon his feet, 
seized his axe, and, holding it raised up, ready to 
strike, approached our young travellers. “ What 
do you want V’ exclaimed he, in a voice of anger: 
“ whom do you seek V f —“We are your children, 
my father,” answered Clara:—“ 'tis Albert—’tis 
your Clara.—We come to bring you nourishment, 
and fold you in our arms!” 

She spoke, and, darting forward, hung on the 
neck of Melctal , who throwing away his axe, 
uttered a cry of joy, pressed his daughter to his 
heart, and silenced her with his kisses: then, 
running to Albert, who regarded them in silence, 
lie embraced him; clasps him in his arms along 


43 


with Clara; pronounces the name of his father —of 
TeU y his faithful friend.—He eagerly interrupted 
their questions, by the tender caresses which lie 
lavished upon Clara and Albert. At length, 
leading them to his humble hearth, he placed him¬ 
self between them, and, seated thus, listened to 
them with tearful eves. 

J 

Clara, with great precaution, acquainted him 
with the cause of their coming to seek him; the 
solemn commands which she bore from the aged 
Henry. But soon the speech of Clara was broken 
by frequent sobs: fain would she acquaint him 
with the horrible misfortune she was bound to dis¬ 
close, the atrocious crime of Gesler. Thrice she 

✓ „ 

commenced the painful recital—thrice she failed in 
the attempt.—Albert came to her assistance:—- 
“ Oh! Melctalf said he, “ behold those tears 
which we cannot restrain; they are the messengers 
of fresh misfortunes. My father charged me to 
acquaint you with them: my father told me that 
his friend would hear them with resignation ; that 
he w r ould pity his beloved Clara; and that he 
would suppress his sorrow's.”—Here the youth 
related how Gesler , the execrable Gesler! had 


44 


revenged himself upon the unhappy Henry. Scaree 
had he finished the recital, ere the furious Melctal 
rose, firmly grasped his hatchet, and darted to¬ 
wards the mouth of the cave, determined instantly 
to bathe it in the blood of the cruel Gesler. Clara 
clung to his knees: Albert stood before him.— 
“ Recollect yourself," said he; “ think of my 
father.—Do you no longer think of him ? Is he 
your friend no longer ? Listen, however, to what 
he bade me tell you. William is intent upon re¬ 
venge ; William is now with Verner; and this single 
word should suffice for you. Hear the orders of 
my father, which he twice repeated.—‘ Go, my 
son; acquaint Melctal with this new crime of the 
tyrant. 'Tis not by furious passion we can be 
revenged; ’tis by courage and by prudence.—I 
go to Schwcitz, to seek out Verner , and arm his 
canton. Let Melctal haste to Stantz ; there are 
his friends, the chiefs of Undenvald. Let him 
assemble them; invite them to collect their arms; 
and immediately afterwards let him wait for me 
in the cave of Grutly, where Verner and myself 
will not be slow tojoin.” 

Melctal listened w ith attention to Albert, and 


\ 


4 5 

the melancholy joy of vengeance cast its faint 
gleam upon his lace.—“ Tell shall be obeyed,’* 
replied Melctal with transport. “ I fly to collect 
our friends: from to-morrow, Albert, you may 
assure your father that two hundred of our coun¬ 
trymen, brave, faithful, animated by the love of 
liberty, ready to yield their latest breath in its 
defence, and resolved before they die to immolate 
thousands of the slaves of tyrants on its sacred altar, 
shall in the market place of Stantz unfurl the 
banners of liberty. The time draws nigh to try 
my courage ; 'twas restrained only by Tell, by the 
solemn injunctions of my venerable father.—My 
Father—my Friend—restore me to myself: let us 
hasten, let us fly to Victory:—she is already with 
us. I burn, I am on lire, to meet the perfidious 
Gesler. Let * him come; let him advance against 
us with his countless satellites, with all his power: 
I feel more strong than all his force together:— 
—I march to meet him, in the name of liberty— 
of filial piety—of outraged and disgraced huma¬ 
nity/* 

He spoke, and would forthwith have taken the 
road to Stantz. Clara detained him; she entreated 


46 


him to devote a little time to nature; to grant her 
one short hour, to enjoy his soothing care'sses; 
and to strengthen his frame, weakened by fatigue 
and long fasting, with the viands she had brought. 
The impetuous yet feeling Melctal with tears em¬ 
braced his darling daughter—grasped the hand of 
Albert—consented to seat himself near the fire; 
placed one on each side, and w ith them made a 
hasty but frugal repast. Soon, however, armed 
with his hatchet, he bade adieu to his dear chil¬ 
dren, clasped his daughter to his heart, and, hold¬ 
ing Albert by the hand, “ Listen to me," said he; 
“ listen to me, my boy. The fate of war is uncer¬ 
tain : I may, perhaps, fall beneath its sword; but 
even then death will have its pleasures. Oh! it w ill 
be sw eet so to die; and every noble, feeling heart 
w ill envy me my lot. In that hope I wish now to 
dispose of the only treasure I possess—that trea¬ 
sure the dearest to my soul, after the liberty of my 
country—this treasure, my young friend, is my be¬ 
loved Clara. I give her to you; from this moment 
she is your’s. Behold your spouse, Albert; place 
your hands in mine: swear by my heart, w hich now 
beats palpitating for my Country, for you both, for 


\ 


my Father—swear to love, to live, to die for one 
another.—You arc now united, mv children: re- 
eeive my blessing, in the name of my father—in 
the name of my worthy friend.”—Clara and Albert 
dropt on their knees before him, and with pure re¬ 
spect received the paternal benediction. Tears of 
joy, not of anguish, rolled down their cheeks; 
Melctal himself could not restrain them; and his 
eyes, animated with the varying passions which 
filled his ardent soul, sparkled through the shower. 
He raised his children; again embraced them; bid 
them again farewell; again repeated his com¬ 
mands for William; then seizing his hatchet, he 
left the cave with hasty steps, and bent his way to¬ 
wards Stantz. 

The two lovers, left alone, dared scarcely suffer 
their eyes to meet. Mute, motionless, with down¬ 
cast looks, still holding each other by the hand, 
they felt a trembling, mixed sensation of joy, 
of happiness, and fear. Agitated by a crowd of 
opposing ideas, their souls could scarcely stand 
the sudden shocks they had experienced: their 
artless innocence for the first time made them fear 
to be alone. Albert, the first whose thoughts 


48 



became settled and collected, at length broke 
silence in broken sentences:—“ Clara, you are 
mine:—for a long time you have known that 
Albert lived only for you; but the time, big 
with fate, the dangers which our fathers run, these 
forbid us thinking of ourselves. 'Tis to them alone 
we owe our solicitudes, and every moment of our 
lives: let us hasten, then, my beloved Clara, to 
my mother; give her an account of the success of 
our journey; and when my father, and your vene¬ 
rable grandsire, shall have sanctioned the bene¬ 
diction which Melctal has bestowed upon us, then, 
and not till then, shall I dare to tell you to what 
happiness I am arrived.” 

Clara, without answering him, warmly pressed 
his hand, then left the cavern ; and they both re¬ 
traced the path they had already traversed. 

But the Sun, though scarcely arrived at half his 
course, cast but a pale and sickly light through 
the opaque and misty clouds: a greyish mantle co¬ 
vered the azure sky; and flakes of snow flitting 
through the air, like the fleeces of the lambs 
which the shears deprives them of, were accumu¬ 
lating towards the north. Soon a cold wind arose, 


4-3 


and rolled together with rapid haste the snowy 
bodies: broken by the wind, they fell like the most 
violent torrent of rain, filled all the paths, gather¬ 
ed in drifted mounds, and almost blinded the un¬ 
fortunate travellers, who could not resist its impe¬ 
tuosity. Clara and Albert, unable to proceed, 
sought shelter amidst the rocks. The snow, still 
falling fast, almost covered them. Albert feared 
for Clara: she, to cheer him, smiled at seeing him 
covered with the flakes, which she playfully shook 
off, and gave the winds to scatter. The storm 
ceased, at length ; the refulgent golden beams of 
the star of day pierced the thick veil which covered 
them, and reflected themselves like sparkling dia¬ 
monds on the snowy surface. The two lovers re¬ 
sumed their journey, but they no longer could 
point out their way: a thick and snowy carpet co¬ 
vered alike the rocks, the fields, the precipices. 
Albert, leading Emma by the hand, advanced with 
caution: with his staff he proved the depths of the 
snow, and he permitted not Clara to take one step 
till he was assured there was no danger. Clara, 
fearing but for him, followed in his tracks; held 
him firmly by the hand, to assist him if he stum- 

D 


50 


bled: yet this long, this painful walk, with every 
moment fresh clangers attending it, had a thousand 
charms for the tender Clara. 

Constrained to take a circuitous route, to follow 
the borders of the torrents, where the rapid force 
of the waters left the banks uncovered bv the snow, 
our travellers consumed the rest of the day, and 
in the evening arrived near the village of Erfeld. 
Albert instantly recognised the spot; lie was cer¬ 
tain to reach Altorff that night by ascending the 
banks of the Reuss: he encouraged his compa¬ 
nion, and the moon, which was just rising, took 
from him all fear of going astray. More recon¬ 
ciled, they followed the left bank of the river, 
which waters the Canton of Ui i, when they were 
joined by a man armed with a long cross-bow, and 
clad in a large cloak which entirely enveloped him. 
Frozen snow and icicles were alone observed upon 
his cap, upon bis mantle, and his locks, matted to¬ 
gether by the hoar: this man met the young couple 
full in front, who halted at the sight of him. With 
a broken voice, 

“ My young friends / 1 said he, “ in me you be¬ 
hold a wandering hunter. I have lost sight of my 


51 


companions: I know not the way to AltorfF, where 
my absence must have already caused much unea¬ 
siness. Can you conduct me, my young friends 1 
I will amply recompense your zeal and your assist¬ 
ance.”—“ The reward is in the service itself,” quick¬ 
ly answered Clara. “ We know the road to Al- 
torff; and we will experience as much pleasure 
in restoring you to your family, as you would 
in restoring us to our worthy parents. Fol¬ 
low us, and we will engage to conduct you to the 
city in an hour.” The hunter joined them, and, 
observing them with much attention by the bright¬ 
ness of the moon, he walked for some time in si¬ 
lence by their side. 

After a while, the stranger, breaking silence, ad¬ 
dressing himself to Albert, said—“ Young man, 
what are your parents? Where in Altorff do .you 
dwell ?”—“ I am the son of a labouring peasant,” 
answered Albert, without noticing him. “ My father 
does not live in the town.”—“ In what part, then, is 
his retreat ?”—“ In the mountains—in the midst of a 
desert, where he cultivates the fields, and practises 
the virtues.”—“ The virtues!” quickly retorted 
the stranger, with a contemptuous smile : s< I should 


/ 


52 

not have thought the name even of Virtue was 
known to you at your age/’—“ 'Twas the first 
word I lisped/' answered Albert, in a firm tone of 
voice.—“ Yop know, then, what it means 1"—“ I 
hope so."—“ Explain it, then, to me."—“ Three 
words will suffice: the fear of God, the love of 
Man, the hatred of their oppressors."—" And 
who are their oppressors'?"—“Tyrants and their 
slaves."—“ In Swisserland there are no tyrants." 

-Clara could not contain herself: a cry burst 

from her. Albert replied not; and the stranger, 
relapsing into thought, pursued his way in silence. 

They approached the walls of Altorff*: already 
they beheld the glittering lances of the soldiers 
who were on duty at the gates. The gloomy 
stranger suddenly addressed Albert in a hurried 
voice, and said, “ What is your father's name 1" 
Clara, trembling and afraid, pressed strongly the 
hand of Albert. He, to whom deceit or falsehood 
was impossible, hesitated a few minutes; till, urged 
by the stranger, he looked at him with a steady 
countenance. “ We have been happy to put you 
in your way," said he; “ let that suffice at present. 
You shall not know from me my father's name: 



? tis known only to his friends.”—“ Imprudent 
youth!” eagerly exclaimed the stranger, with a 
voice broken by passion; “ your father cannot, 
shall not, escape me. Nor shall you escape the 
chains I have prepared for you, but at the moment 
when I shall know the whole of your seditious fa¬ 
mily. Know that I have the power and the means 
to discover and to punish the guilty!” 

They reached the gates: the stranger pronounced 
the name of Gesler ; and the soldiers, quickly turn¬ 
ing out to receive him, presented their pikes before 
him. “ Seize these young people!” exclaimed 
the ferocious Governor; “ drag them to prison; 
and be careful to bring before me the first inhabit¬ 
ants of Altorff who shall demand their release.” 

He is obeyed: Clara and Albert were surround¬ 
ed by the guards. Without pity for their youth, 
for the feeble state to which their toilsome journey 
had reduced them, they are conducted to the cita¬ 
del, and a gloomy dungeon becomes their abode. 
Calm in the midst of their disgrace, regarding each 
other with equal tenderness, they secretly thanked 
their savage keepers for permitting them to be to¬ 
gether, and heard without dismay the heavy door 


54 



of their dungeon creek slowly on its hinges. They 
stretched themselves on the straw, thrown to them 
in pity, and shared the coarse bread which was left 
for them; fearless, and without remorse, uneasy only 
at the alarm which their absence must cause at 
home, and the dangers which threatened William 
should he confront the tyrant. They hoped, they 
prayed, that Emma and the aged Henry might 
still believe them in the cave with Melctal; that 
they might remain ignorant of their misfortunes. 

Wholly occupied with this pious idea, these 
youthful lovers, imprisoned and under the very 
knife of a merciless barbarian, rested on their flinty 
bed in peace: no frightful dreams troubled their 
repose; and they enjoyed that calmness, that sere¬ 
nity of soul, which Virtue can bestow on us, even in 
the dungeon. Not so the Governor: surrounded 
in his splendid palace by numerous bodies of troops, 
armed with all his power, able by a single word to 
doom to destruction whomsoever he pleased, he 
could not taste the sweets of sleep, and the most 
fearful visions fluttered over his troubled fancy. 
Gloomy, sullen, furious, tormented by a crowd of 
contending passions, fearing for his life, yet medi- 


55 


tating fresh punishments, fresh tortures, for those 
he dreaded, to preserve that wretched life, to 
place betwixt his crimes and him a bloody tor¬ 
ment, thus reasoned with himself:—“How dread¬ 
ful must that hatred be which these people bear 
me, since even their children, their very infants, 
cannot conceal it from the traveller, the stranger, 
too, whom chance throws in their way! If they so 
talk, what then must their fathers say? What 
have I not to fear from a seditious rabble, whose 
numbers hourly increase, and who cherish the hope 
of depriving me, together with my sovereign pow¬ 
er, of my life—to plunge the dagger to my heart ? 
Yet, I ivill prevent them: yes, I shall suppress 
with threats and terror those who shall escape my 
angry justice. I shall contrive new means to know 
my enemies: all are so, I doubt not; yet shall not 
all dare to own it; and the boldest shall perish 
first, just victims to my vengeance.” 

He gave himself entirely up to wrath, to the 
maddening dictates of his furious passions—revolv¬ 
ed in his almost distracted mind a thousand rude 
undigested projects—adopted them—dismissed 
them—cherished the wild chimeras of his tortured 


\ 


brain—and gave, in his imagination, the most me¬ 
rit to those orders he then framed, which appeared 
best to express the contempt he felt for the very 
beings whom he dreaded ; and he finally came to 
the resolution of adopting that project of a mad¬ 
man, by which all the inhabitants of Uri were 
forced basely to bow their heads before that cap 
which their atrocious Governor had worn. 

In vain did reason, now almost astray, present to 
him the dangers of this absurd, this useless order: 
reason was no longer listened to. He instantly 
summoned the chief officers of his guards; enquir¬ 
ed with eager anxiety upon the zeal, the devotion, 
the attachment of the mercenary soldiers; distri¬ 
buted amongst them the riches which his avarice 
yielded up to his fears; and, addressing Sarnem, 
the faithful secret minister of his most guilty 
thoughts, “ To-morrow," said he, hastily, “ to¬ 
morrow, at the dawn of day, let a lofty poll be 
erected in the centre of the market place of Ai- 
torff. On the summit let this cap, which I now 
deliver into your hands, be placed, exposed to 
every eye. Let my brave troops in arms surround 
the place, guard every avenue, and oblige the 


57 


passing slaves to bow with reverence and respect 
before this emblem of my power, of the dignity of 
the Governor of these Cantons: let the least diso¬ 
bedience, the slightest murmurs even, against my 
will, be punished instantly by close imprisonment. 
Let it be your care to read in their countenances, 
in their eyes, and in the expression of the looks of 
these base men whom Nature has ordained for 
slaves, the secret sentiments of hatred, of inde¬ 
pendence, of courage; for even bravery is a crime 
in those whose duty it is only to obey. Go! exe¬ 
cute my will: and, more, let all our spies be em¬ 
ployed to discover, if possible, the guilty parents 
of those two young persons whom I have ordered 
to be kept in chains.” 

He spoke, and Sarnem , obedient to his will, 
hastened to fulfil his orders. The soldiers receiv¬ 
ed in advance the wages of their guilty purpose; 
both wine and money were prodigally distributed 
amongst them. The spies of Gesler spread them¬ 
selves throughout the city, in the vicinity; sought 
to introduce themselves into the different families, 
in order, by relating a false tale of pity, how two 
young persons had become the victims of Gesler's 

D 2 


l 


cruelty, to discover what effect this would pro¬ 
duce amongst the people, to convert into a crime 
even the feelings of pity and compassion. 

But Heaven, all-righteous Heaven, who w atched 
over the low ly cot of 7c//, concealed it from the 
search of Cesler’s emissaries: they disturbed not 
the peaceful dwelling of the virtuous Emma, who 
alone, with the aged," sightless Henry, counted the 
tedious hours, far from her husband, from her son. 
—The night passed slowly on in this uncertain 
state of anxious expectation:—the solitary lamp, 
which shed its glimmering light upon them, still 
continued to burn; and neither the aged Henry, 
nor the good, the gentle Emma, as yet felt disposed 
to taste the refreshing aid of sleep. They spoke 
with anxious fondness of their children: the 
slightest murmurs of the wintry blast, the least 
noise without, made them listen at the door. The 
bleak north wind, whistling through the lofty 
branches of the trees, now robbed of their leafy 
honours; the barking of their faithful dog, who 
traversed his accustomed path around the cottage, 
every instant gave new hope to Emma. She arose 
—she ran towards the door, every moment expect- 


mg Albert. She looked through the easement—she 
beheld nothing but the shades of night—she listen¬ 
ed—she heard only the roaring of the torrent. 
Sad with hopes betrayed, she slowly returned to 
her seat beside the old man, from whom she fain 
would hide her fears and her anxieties. “ Your 
son has detained them," said she, endeavouring to 
suppress the rising sigh. te Do, my good old man, 
do take some rest: sleep, and I will watch over 
thee till morning."—“ Yes, my child," answered 
Henry, “ my son has no doubt detained them. 
I yield to your entreaties; I will court repose:— 
but heed me not, I pray: compose yourself, and 
calmly hope the best."—The old man at length, 
to satisfy her, feigned to sleep :—They both pre¬ 
served silence, in order to lull each other into a 
deceitful security; both endeavoured to suppress 
the sighs which struggled hard for utterance. At 
the slightest noise, they both arose with eager 
haste; but, alas! their hopes were alike deceitful. 


END OF BOOK SECOND* 


BOOK THIRD. 



MEANTIME Tell, long before the peep 
of day, had arrived within the walls of Schwitz: 
he knocked at the door of Verner. The faithful 
mastiffs, steady to their trust, made the place re¬ 
sound with their loud and hollow bark. Verner, 
restless in his mind, already seated before a blazing 
fire, hastened to the door, opened it at the voice 
of his friend, and led him to the cheering hearth. 
The surly, threatening animals no sooner recognized 
the faithful friend of their master, than they over¬ 
whelmed him with their rude caresses, and sought 
to hide their enormous heads beneath the benumb¬ 
ed, half frozen hands of William. 

“ My friend," exclaimed the hero, “ the hour is 
at length arrived when we must deliver our country 
from its scourge, or perish in the glorious cause of 
liberty. 'Tis not your cautious prudence that I 




61 


now consult; 'tis not from your experienced wis¬ 
dom that I ask advice; 'tis your courage 1 would 
rouse. No more in tardy council must we now de¬ 
bate. Crime heaped on crime accumulates too 
fast; and Gesler , Gesler himself, has sounded the 
signal of revolt.” 

With these words he threw down a heavy bundle 
of various arms, of pikes, of cross-bows, arrows, and 
well proved swords, which he bore upon his shoul¬ 
ders. Verner beheld them with a smile of joy:— 
“ Before I listen to one word more,” said he, “ I 
must conceal this precious treasure. We may be 
surprised; for, when we are dependant on a despot’s, 
will, our house no longer is our castle.” 

They then, taking the bundle of arms together, 
concealed it in a place of perfect safety. Returned 
and seated by the lire, William related to Verner 
the barbarity of the Governor—the dire misfortune 
of the aged Henry—the flight of his son Melctal 
—the journey of Albert in search of him—and 
that Albert, at this very hour, should be at Grutty 
to assure Melctal of their co-operation .—Verner 
listened with deep attention; made him repeat the 
details of William’s bold designs; weighed them; 


discussed them with him; invented obstacles 
which it was possible they might encounter; till* 
satisfied by the replies of 71'//, who had foreseen 
and guarded against every casualty, he grasped 
his hands, and exclaimed with fervor, “ My friend, 
let us commence the glorious work !— Verner is 
ready." 

Separately, and by opposite roads, they carried 
one by one the arms which they had deposited, 
securely to their friends in the city—to theii friends 
in the villages by which Schwitz is surrounded: 
they placed in the hands of the enemies of tyranny 
both the means of its destruction and their own 
revenge; they thanked the chilling frost; they 
thanked the showers of snow, which, falling in 
abundance, obscured the day, and rendered track¬ 
less the roads which they had passed in safety. 
Repeatedly did they return to distribute the arms, 
which they were obliged singly to do. They 
employed full twelve hours on this important work, 
inspiring the hearts of those whom they thus armed, 
receiving their sacred oatiis in the presence of the 
Almighty; acquainting them with the crimes of 
Gesler , animating them to revenge, and with in- 


63 


creased ardour varying their exhortations to 
point out fresh paths that might lead to Freedom. 

The entire day was consumed in this occu¬ 
pation : all the arms were distributed. William 
retained nothing but his bow; Verner, a single 
pike. At length, almost overcome with fatigue, 
they entered Verner*s house, took a slight refresh¬ 
ment; and, regardless of repose, pressed by the 
appointed time, which quick approached, by the 
promise made to Melctal, they quitted once more 
the city, and took the road to the cavern of 
Grutty. 

They marched along through the deep snows 
which the keen northern blast had collected around 
them; they arrived at the borders of the lake, 
sought a boat in the darkness, and found a frail 
and almost shattered bark moored strongly to the 
shore, and which the urging waves, raised high 
by the whistling north, dashed against the rocky 
bank. Verner , seeing the lake so much disturbed, 
asked William, if, skilful as be was known to be, 
he would venture to struggle against the tempest, 
“ Melctal is waiting for us,’ 7 exclaimed Tell , “ and 
cur country's fate depends upon our meeting, 


64f 


Bo you ask me if I can cross the lake?—I know 
not that the thing is possible; but I know that it 
must be done. I count but little on my long 
tried skill; but I trust to the God of Heaven and 
Earth, who watches over souls so pure as ours, 
and who delights in the protection of the sons of 
Freedom .” 

He spoke, and sprung into the boat: Verner 
followed him. Tell hastily cut the rope which 
held her to the shore, seized the oars, and pushed 
off from the bank; but whether it was the effect 
of chance, whether the all-just and powerful God 
whom William silently invoked, watched over the 
deliverers of Swisserland, the wind suddenly fell 
calm; the high-swollen wave decreased, and on its 
now even surface lightly bore the bark of Tell , who, 
seizing the oars, made his way with the rapidity 
of an arrow. He quickly crossed the lake, arrived 
at the opposite shore, leaped out, fastened his 
boat, and the two friends hastened to the cavern 
which had long been known to them. 

Melctal was waiting for them at the entrance. 
No sooner did he perceive Tell than he darted 
forward, and sprung into his arms; pronounced in 


V 


\ 


65 

sobbing accents the names of his father, and his 
friend; confounded the two names so dear; and 
scarcely could contain the varying sentiments 
which almost overpowered him. William wept with 
him; held his hand, which he pressed with force; 
led him to the bottom of the cave; and there, ob¬ 
scured in darkness, the three friends, seated on the 
rocks, thought not of their own personal griefs, but 
their whole souls were wrapt up in the destiny of 
their country. Tell was the first to speak. 

“ Melctal” said he, “ thy father lives; he is 
safe beneath my roof: be satisfied of this, and let 
your filial piety give place to your duty to your 
country. We must examine, we must find out the 
means, most sure, most prompt, to deliver her; to 
restore her to her freedom ; to revenge the injuries, 
the barbarities, the excesses, she so long has endur¬ 
ed. Each of us in our respective Cantons enjoys 
the esteem, the attachment, the confidence of our 
brethren. The brave inhabitants of Schwitz will 
obey the voice of Verner: they only wanted arms, 
which this day Verner and myself have given them. 
These arms, added to what our friends of Schwitz 
had already procured, will insure us two hundred 


66 


well armed soldiers, who have chosen Verner for 
their leader.—We have their faith pledged to us— 
we have their oaths:—we may trust to them even 
as to ourselves. 

** In Uri, within the vralls of Altorff, where the 
presence of the tyrant augments and nourishes the 
terror, where the strong citadel he has built seems 
to bid defiance to our efforts and secure his power, 
I found it more difficult to find adherents to our 
cause. Every heart, 'tis true, glow ed with the love 
of liberty; but the numerous satellites of Gtsler, 
his infamous emissaries, watched with the most 
scrupulous care to discover and to extinguish the 
smallest spark of this most sacred fire.. As- yet, I 
cannot reckon on the strength of Altorff:—the 
people groan beneath the rod of despotism; daily 
they behold the deadly axe raised over him, who 
with a suspicious eye regards the haughty Gover¬ 
nor. The people of Altorff will not attack him; 
but they w ill not defend him: Altorff must, then, 
be conquered. But in the villages which surround 
it, I have found an hundred chosen companions, 
ready to die w ith me:—they^are w ell armed—they 
are brave: this is all that 1 can offer.—Speak, 


67 

Melctal ; acquaint us with the result of your ef¬ 
forts in Underwald; and let us now irrevocably 
fix the hour, the instant, when we shall unite our 
strength, and lead to Victory or Death.” 

“ My friends,” replied Melctal , “ I was far from* 
counting on the force which is already in your 
hands, and yet l was confident of success. An 
hundred and fifty youthful warriors are already 
prepared in Underwald; this very day have I met 
them. They chose me for their chief, and bum 
for the combat. My friends, let us not lose an 
instant; let us assemble this very night under the 
walls of Altorff; let us unite our trusty bands in 
the very heart of the city; let us attack the fort 
without delay. The people will assist us.—We 
will punish this cruel Governor, and let his eyes be 

tom out in the very place where my father. 

But I rave; pardon a wretched son. I repeat, 
however, that spite of the night—spite of the snow 
which now covers the earth, and renders the roads 
almost impassable—let us assemble by to-morrow's 
dawn in the marketplace of Altorff, and let a sud¬ 
den attack make us masters of the citadel, or bury 
us in its ruins!” 



68 


* 


“ Yes, we will doubtless perish," calmly replied 
Verner ; “ and this death, glorious 'tis true, will be 
useless to our country. You do not, Melctal, 
clearly comprehend what William has just told us. 
The hundred friends of whom he is so certain are 
dispersed among the villages of Uri: we must have 
time to collect them. As four thousand well train¬ 
ed troops are constantly on duty near the tyrant, 
the people of Altorff groaning beneath the weight 
of Geshr’s power, of his guards, his numerous 
army, dare not attempt to join us. Our little 
army, arriving in a tumultuous manner, in differ¬ 
ent groupes, will not be able to obtain admission to 
the city, but may be buried under its ramparts. 
The three Cantons together are too weak to over¬ 
turn the power of Geskr, who, trusting to the great 
colossal strength of the German empire, possesses 
many fortified places; to lay siege to which, how¬ 
ever short, would give time to the Austrian troops 
to be reinforced to thrice the number of our popu¬ 
lation. Trust to my experience; let us be well as¬ 
sured of ample succour before we attempt our en¬ 
terprise. Think you that ue alone shall be the 
only friends to Freedom t Think you that Zu¬ 
rich, Lucerne, the inhabitants of the rough mount- 


69 


ains of Zug, of Glaris, and of Appenzel, do not 
shudder like ourselves, overwhelmed by the chains 
of slavery ? Doubt not but that these generous 
people suffer equally with us the glorious thirst of 
independence. My heart foretels to me that they 
will one day become a part of ourselves—a Repub¬ 
lic dreaded and respected by all the Kings and 
Princes of the Universe.—Let us, then, hasten the 
glorious day; let us dispatch deputies to Lucerne, 
to Zug, to Zurich; let us organize a general con¬ 
spiracy ; let us fix the day, the sacred day, when, 
at the same hour throughout all Swisserland, all 
the friends of Liberty shall at the same time attack 
their tyrants. Then shall we blaze forth—then 
shall Altorff declare itself; and the astonished Go¬ 
vernor, surrounded by an armed people, shall fall 
beneath our efforts, before his messengers, every 
where intercepted, can bear the tidings of his dan¬ 
ger to the Emperor, his master/’ 

Verner was silent. Melctal still murmured, and 
seemed disposed to combat his arguments; w hen 
William began, and both listened in respectful si¬ 
lence. “ I admire your boldness/’ said he to 
Melctal; “ I excuse your ardour; but it would be 


70 


fatal to our purpose. I honour, I respect, your 
prudent: caution, Vei'ner; but it also has its dan¬ 
gers. Those conspiracies can never prosper which 
are not entrusted to a faithful few:—a single word, 
a single error, the most trifling accident, can over¬ 
turn the well-laid plan of many years.—In the va¬ 
rious towns and villages which we propose to asso¬ 
ciate in our great design, a single traitor will he 
sufficient to overturn our purpose; to give his de¬ 
voted country a prey to fire and sword; and to be¬ 
hold her chosen sons, her favourite patriots, perish 
disgracefully upon the scaffold.—No! let us con¬ 
fide to no one our great, our sublime, designs. 
We, I trust, are in ourselves a host—we, I hope, 
will suffice to lay the foundation of our country's 
freedom: and when Uri, Schwitz, Underwald, 
shall have displayed upon their mountain tops the 
standard of Liberty, we or our sons w ill see the 
other Cantons bravely fighting under the sacred 
banner, or reposing beneath its shade. 

“ Verner y it is full time that our plans should 
burst the veil. But I must entreat you, Melctal , 
to allow me yet a few r days more.—Hear, then, my 
plan, which I now submit to you. 


. 71 

“ Underwald and Schwitz are armed. Three 
hundred and fifty warriors of these two Cantons 
are ready, you say, to attend your steps: appoint 
a rendezvous for them; not in a city, not in a vil¬ 
lage, but in some sequestered vale—some desert 
unfrequented spot, where, assembling by different 
routes, they can readily unite, and put themselves 
in motion at the same instant. While you are 
employed on this business, I shall return to Uri, 
where, seconded by the brave Furst> the only one 
of my companions to whom I have confided my 
plans, I will assemble the hundred enemies of ty¬ 
ranny, whose stifled murmurs and whose courage 
have made me deem them worthy of being our 
associates in the glorious enterprise: the brave 
Furst will seek them in Maderan and Urseren, even 
amongst the lofty mountains front which the Aar, 
the Tessen, the Rhine, and the Rhone, derive 
their rapid sources. I alone will remain at Al- 
torff, where a messenger from Furst will acquaint 
me of the instant when his valiant troop shail be in 
motion. Instantly on the receipt of this intelli¬ 
gence, 1 will set lire to an immense pile of faggots, 
which with my own hands I have already raised 





on the mountain near my collage. When you 
shall perceive the flames ascending from this bea¬ 
con, do you, Verner , and you, Melctal, immedi¬ 
ately depart with your brave followers for the ap¬ 
pointed place of meeting; from thence, when you 
shall have formed a junction, march directly on 
towards Aitorflf. I have already calculated the 
time—the distance. Furst with the brave sons of 
Uri, Venter with those of Schwitz, and Melctal 
with those of Underwald, will arrive nearly at the 
same instant, at noon, at the north and east gates 
of the city.—I, my gallant friends, will be alone, 
in the midst of the people, whom my voice, my 
efforts, shall rouse to action in the cause of Liber¬ 
ty. My lips shall make the sacred name resound 
throughout the city; and Liberty! Liberty! shall 
be our cry: you shall pronounce it when you enter 
the city's walls. The people, astonished and sur¬ 
prised to see, to hear at the same time, that Uri, 
Schwitz, and Underwald, have flown to their as¬ 
sistance—the people, I repeat, yielding only to 
their hatred, their fury, against Gesler , will join in 
crowds our valiant troops. We will attack the 
citadel, which the tyrant, taken by surprise, will in 


vain be able to defend. Soon shall we behold our 
sacred banner waving over the frowning battle¬ 
ments ; and all Swisserland, astonished at this our 
first, this daring effort, will seek the high honour of 
being associates in our future combats/ 7 

He spoke. Melctal threw himself on his neck, 
and bathed the hero with tears of joy. Verner 
himself was persuaded; Verner adopted his opi¬ 
nion. The three deliverers, without uniting them¬ 
selves to each other bv fresh oaths. Oaths urine- 
cessary to their great souls! the three Heroes se¬ 
parated, after deciding that they would not com¬ 
mence their march until the moment that the flam¬ 
ing signal should be given by William. Melctal 
* 

returned to Stantz, to prepare Iris friends for the 
occasion: Verner and Tell returned to their boat, 
and crossed the peaceful lake. Verner took the 
road to Schwitz, and William that to Altorff. 

lie walked in gloomy thoughtfulness on the 
margin of the lake, and determined ere he return¬ 
ed home to visit his friends in Altorff, and inform 
them of his grand designs. The Sun had not yet 
set behind the mountains when he reached the 
town: he advanced as far as the market place, 

E 


where the first object which attracted his attention 
was a lofty pole erected in the centre, on the top 
of which he distinguished a rich Cap bordered with 
gold. Around the pole a great number of soldiers 
walked in silence, and seemed to guard with re¬ 
spect this new emblem of power and domination. 
William walked forward, astonished; and present¬ 
ly he perceived the people of Altorff prostrate 
themselves before this cap! before this pole! and 
the armed satellites c>f the tyrant curb still iower 
with the points of their lances, those who thus hu¬ 
miliated themselves. Scarcely master of his indig¬ 
nation, Tell recoiled on his own: he would not 
believe his eyes; he remained mute and motion¬ 
less, rested himself on his bow of yew, and beheld 

with disdain the cowardice of the people and the 

* 

villany of the soldiers. 

Sarnem , who commanded the guard ; Sarnem * 
whose ferocious zeal delighted in going beyond 
thv, orders of the tyrant, soon distinguished that 
man who alone, in the midst of a people degraded 
and enslaved, stood upright with the firm dignity 
of manly pride. He hastened towards him, and, 
looking at him with eyes boiling with fury, “ Who- 


ever thou art,” said lie, "tremble, lest I punish 
thv tardiness in obeving the orders of Geshr !— 
Art thou a stranger to the proclamation which 
obliges every inhabitant of Altorff to salute with 
respect this emblem of his power ?”—“ I was 
ignorant of it,” replied William; “ nor could I 
have thought that the intoxication of lire supreme 
power could have ever arrived at this excess of 
tyranny, of madness, and of folly: but he is justi¬ 
fied by the cowardice of the people. I excuse and 
approve Geslcr : lie ought to treat us as slaves; he 
cannot sufficiently despise those who can submit to 
such degradation. As to me, I never bow the 
knee, save to the God whom I adore.”—“Auda¬ 
cious wretch!” replied Sarnem ; “ thou shalt ex¬ 
piate thy audacity. Fall on thy knees, and disarm 
the vengeance of that hand which can punish 
thee.”—“ My ow n should punish me,” exclaimed 
Telly looking him sternly in die face; “ my own 
should punish me, if I were capable of obeying 
thee.” 

He ended. The cruel Sarnem gave a signal- 
immediately a number of the soldiery seized Wil¬ 
liam, tore from him his bow, and deprived him of 


76 


in’s quiver. Surrounded by numerous glittering 
swords, all directed to bis heart, they led him, they 
dragged him, before the Governor. 

Calm in the midst of the soldiery, deaf to their 
gross insults, he crossed his arms upon his manly 
breast: he appeared before the tyrant—lie beheld 
him with a look of disdain; let the accuser speak 
without interruption; and, in a silence which insult 
could not break, he waited the interrogatories of 
Gesler, 

The dignity of his manner, the calm serenity of 
his countenance, disturbed the Governor: an invo¬ 
luntary terror, a secret presentiment, seemed to 
whisper to his heart that he beheld before him the 
punisher of his crimes, the Deliverer of 
Swisserland: —he could not bear to look at 
him. lie hesitated to interrogate him : at length, 
in a tremulous voice, he said, “ What motive 
could prompt thee to disobey my orders?—to 
disregard the sign, be it what it might, of my 
power, the respect and homage which thou owest to 
me ? Excuse thyself: I know how to pardon."— 
William looked at him with a disdainful smile: 
<( Punish me," said he, “ but ask not my thoughts. 



77 


Thou hast never heard the truth; thou canst not 
hear it/’—“ Prove it,” replied Gesler; “ let me hear 
it from thy mouth. I wish to be instructed by thee, 
by thyself, in my errors and my duties.”—“ I in¬ 
struct not Tyrants,” replied Tell; “ yet the horror 
which their presence inspires does not deprive me 
of my courage. I can recal their crimes, I can 
predict their fate. Listen, then, since thou do'st 
consent to hear me. 

“ The measure is soon filed. The cup of misery 
which angry Heaven has remitted to thy care over¬ 
flows on every side; his vengeance, now fulfilled 
by thee, will next injustice strike thyself. Hear the 
cries of the innocent confined in thy dungeons; 
hear the cries of the children and the widows, 
who ask at thy hands their husbands and their 
fathers, expiring by thy order with protracted tor¬ 
ments. Tlieir bleeding shades wander round 
thy dwelling. Seest thou not that ghastly form ?— 
'tis the shade of a murdered father. Now, it raises 
its hands to Heaven for vengeance; now, it bends 
to earth for its suffering wife and infant children: 
it will pursue thee in thy dreams, in the shape of a 
body covered with villanous wounds. Its blood 


/ 


73 

will gush upon thy hands, and awake thee at ths 
midnight hour: this blood shalt thou see in the 
shades of night; thou shalt see it, and in vain will 
thy closing eyes endeavour to hide it from thy 
sight!—The few who remain alive will abandon 
their dwellings, and their little all, the fruit of 
years of labour, to thy insatiate avarice; they 
will fly, they will conceal themselves in the forests 
and in shelving rocks. Then, what will this 
trembling people do ?—a people to whom thy 
mime inspires greater terror than the falling of the 
mountain snows about to bury our villages. What 
w ill they do ?—Kneeling on the rocks, they will 
supplicate Heaven for vengeance; supplicate Hea¬ 
ven to exterminate the destroyer of mankind! 
Yes, Gesler, I forewarn thee,, of it. The cries 
of so many persecuted innocents, despoiled, de¬ 
based, immolated by thy order; this blood 
shed hourly by thy hands, the vapour of which 
forms a thick and impervious cloud around thee; 
this blood is ascended to Heaven: its supplicating 
cries have reached the Throne of Mercy, have 
reached the Throne of the Deitv, and soon will 
his justice strike thee!—My country's deliverance is 


sit hand: such my wishes, such my thoughts, and 
such my fondest hopes. Thou requested my 
sentiments: art thou satisfied?—I have nothing 
more to add; for I will not degrade my reason 
so far as to tell thee a word respecting those mad 
decrees, those orders of a worse than madman, 
which dooms the unfortunate people of Uri to bow r 
before the cap which covered thy head. Thou 
knowest all, and now mayest thou command my 
punishment/' 

Gesler listened in silence, and contained his 
wrath tire better to bring it down more heavily on 
the victim's head: he suspended his rage in the 
hope of finding, of inventing a punishment which 
could avenge him most of a man who appeared 
to despise death. He thought of those children 
whom he had the evening before confined in 
chains; he recalled to mind their firm and undaunt¬ 
ed manner; and, comparing it with what he had 
just heard, his ingenious fury suspected, divined, 
that those children, already so proud, so deeply 
impressed with the hatred of tyranny, could only 
belong to him who braved his wrath. He deter- 
mined to assure himself of the truth, and gave a 
secret order that they should be brought forth. 


80 


Sarnem hastened to fetch them. During this 
period the cunning Gesler, dissimulating his wrath, 
feigned an indifference of thought; coolly interro¬ 
gated William respecting his situation, his family, 
and the rank he held in Uri. William did not 
conceal his name; and this name, famous in Altorff, 
struck the Governor with terror and alarm. 
—“Why!—how!" said he, with surprise and fear 
mingled in his countenance, “ is it thee?—thee, so 
renowned for conducting a Boat across the tempest¬ 
uous lake?—thee, so expert at the bow?—whose ar¬ 
rows never miss their aim?"—“ Even so," replied 
Tell ; “ and I blush that my name should only be 
known by unavailing attempts in my country's cause. 
This vain glory is unworthy the death I am about 
to suffer in pronouncing the name of Liberty." 

At that instant Sarnem returned leading Clara and 
Albert. When Tell perceived his son, lie uttered a 
shriek of joy, and flew towards him. “ O Albert!" 
he cried, “ O my son ! I can embrace thee yet!—but 

where?—how?—why.?"—“ No! no! you are 

not my father," Albert immediately replied, who saw 
William's danger, and knew the fate which Gesler 
had prepared for his unfortunate father. “ No; I 
repeat it, I do not know r you. My family [looking 


\ 



81 


round him] are not here.”—‘William, astonished, 
remained motionless, his arms open and extended : 
he could not comprehend why his son should re¬ 
fuse his embraces, and dare to deny any know ledge 
of him. Clara augmented his surprise in confirm¬ 
ing wliat Albert had said, and repeating with him 
that William was not their father. The heart of 
Tell murmured at the fact, and began to be angry 
at the measure; whilst Gesler , whose savage eyes 
observed their varied emotions ; Gesler, who now 
had penetrated the mystery which he wished to 
know; enjoyed at once the fear, surprise, and sor¬ 
row, of the father and his children. 

A horrid joy diffused itself over his counte¬ 
nance ; his eyes sparkled with the red fire of ven¬ 
geance.—*“ 1 am not to be deceived,” said he. 
“ William, behold thy Son, and this son has excited 
iny wrath. My patience, wearied with thy outrages, 
at length has found a punishment proportioned to 
thy audacity. I will pronounce it:—listen. 

“ 1 wish, even in punishing thee, to render 
homage to this rare talent of which thy happy 
country boasts so much; I wish, that, in contem¬ 
plating my justice, the people of Altorff should ad- 

E2 


/ 


§2 


mire thy skill. They shall give thee back thy- 
bow; they shall place thy son before thee at the 
distance of an hundred paces. Ail apple shall be 
placed upon his head; that apple shall be the mark 
for thy arrow. If thy hand, sure of its aim, car¬ 
ries the apple away with the arrow, I will shew 
merev to you both; restore you both your liberty. 
If thou refusest this proof, thy sou shall die before 
thine eyes." 

“Barbarian!” replied Tell, “ what demon from 
tlie regions of the damned, can have inspired thee 
with such an idea?—O, God ! who hearest us at 
this moment, wilt thou suffer these horrible ex¬ 
cesses of tire genius of cruelty?—No ! I will not 
accept the. proof; no! I will not expose myself to 
the danger of becoming the murderer of my son!—- 
I ask for death; I implore it of thy executioners: 
they are all here; all who surround thee have 
drenched their guilty hands an hundred times in 

t 

blood. Let them turn their swords on me; let 
them he levelled at my heart! I beg it of thee; I 
conjure thee to do it! Let me but die innocent; 
let me die as a man, and as a father!—Hear me, 
Gesltr: thy numerous guards, the example of a 


83 


whole people, the certitude, the sight of punish¬ 
ment, could not make me bow before thee: I pre¬ 
ferred death to such baseness. But now, to ob¬ 
tain that death, to escape from the dreadful dam 
ger of murdering my child, see me kneel before 
thee !—Promise me death, Gesler. I will bow be¬ 
fore thy pride !” 

“ No!” cried Albert, whose youth and manners 
touched with pity the hearts even of the satellites ; 
“ no ! yield not to his request.—1 accept—I accept 
the proof: be it as thou hast promised. My fa¬ 
ther shall be free !—Courage, courage, my worthy 
Sire! Heaven will guide thy hand. Fear not; thy 
son is in safety. Pardon me if my tenderness could 
for a moment forget my father. I trembled for 
thee, and. thee alone: to save thee, I abandoned 
what is dearer to me than all the world,—the 
name, the endearing name, of thy son!—O, my 
father! pardon me, my father! my beloved father! 
Permit me to repeat an hundred times that name 
which but so lately I refused to acknowledge.— 
Be of good courage: thou wilt not kill me. A secret 
voice whispers to ray heart that I am safe.—Lead 
me forth; lead me forth!—Clara, go; but take 
care not to acquaint my mother” 


84 


Albert threw himself into William's bosom, who 
received, embraced, and pressed him to his heart: 
he wished to speak; he drowned him with his 
tears: he could only repeat, w ith a trembling and 
stifled voice, “ No, my son ! no, my dear son — 
Clara sw ooned; the soldiery carried her into the 
palace: and the inflexible Gesler, without being 
moved at this spectacle, repeated his terrible or¬ 
der ; offered for the last time to William the choice 
of seeing his son perish before his eyes, or accept¬ 
ing the proof. William heard him; his head w as 
bent, and his eyes fixed on the earth: he remained 
for a few r moments without giving any reply, still 
holding Albert in his arms. He suddenly raised 
his head—looked at the Governor; his eyes were 
red with tears, and flamed with indignation.—- 
“ I will obey,” replied be. “ Lead me forth!—I 
will obey!" 

The father and the son, holding each other by 
the hand, were immediately surrounded by the 
guards: they left the palace together under the 
conduct of Sarnem. The people'were already in¬ 
formed of the horrid spectacle about to be exhi¬ 
bited, and hastened to the market,place. Each 


85 


murmured from the bottom of his heart, but each 
feared to express a sentiment of pity. Their 
fearful looks sought William; they discovered him 
surrounded by lances, walking by the side of Albert, 
who smiled as he w ent on: tears, however, gush¬ 
ed in his eves, when he beheld the looks of his fa- 
ther; but terror restrained those tears —Gesler 
w ould have punished them as a crime. Every eye 
w as bent to the earth: a melancholy silence reigned 
amongst the people; they felt, suffered, and were 
silent. 

The space was already measured by the savage 
Sarnem; a double line of soldiers enclosed this 
space on three sides: the people pressed behind 
them. Albert, at the extremity, beheld all the 
preparations with a countenance tranquil and se¬ 
rene. Gesler , at some distance behind Tell, re¬ 
mained surrounded by his guard, and observed 
with inquietude the melancholy silence of the peo¬ 
ple ; and William, surrounded with lances, remain¬ 
ed with his eyes thoughtfully cast on the ground. 
They presented him his bow and a single arrow: 
after having tried the point, he broke it, and ask¬ 
ed for liis quiver. They brought it: he emptied 


80 


it on the ground, examined, chose amongst his 
arrows, remained some time kneeling, seized a fa 
vourable moment, and concealed an arrow under 
his dress; he took another in his hand, that which 
he meant to use. Sarnem ordered the remainder 
to be taken away, and William slowly strung his- 
bow of yew. 

He looked at his son—stopped—raised his eyes 
to Heaven—threw down the bow and the arrow— 
and begged to speak to Albert. Four soldiers led 
William to him. “ My scn, v said he, “ I must em¬ 
brace thee once more. I must repeat what 1 have 
already told thee: Be motionless, my son; rest 
with one knee on the ground: thou wilt then be 
more firm, or more certain of not moving. Thou 
wilt pray to God, my son, to protect thy unfortu¬ 
nate father.—Oh, no ! pray only for thyself: let 
not the idea of thy father unnerve thee; hwould 
weaken, perhaps, that heroic and manly courage 
which I admire, though I cannot imitate it. No, 
my son! I can never shew myself so great as thee. 
—Preserve! preserve, that fortitude of which I 
should wish to give tiiee an example. Yes; re¬ 
main thus—thus, my boy! as my fondest hopes 


8 7 


could wish.-Could wish !—Wretch that 1 am !■ 

-O thou Most High, thou permittest!—Hear 

me, Albert: Turn thy head; thou do’st not know, 
thou canst not foresee, the effect which it would 
have on thee, to see the glittering steel levelled at 
thy face. Turn thy head,, my boy! and do not 
look at me”—“ No! no!” replied the boy ; “ fear 
nothing: I will look at you. I shall not see the 
arrow; I shall only see my father/’—“ O, my dear 
hoy!” cried Tel!, “ don't speak to me! don't speak ! 
Thy voice, thy accent, will deprive me of my 
strength. Cease, pray to God, and do not stir!” 

William embraced him anew—turned to leave 1 
him;—embraced him once more—repeated his 
last words-—placed the apple on his head—and 
hasted to the spot assigned for him. 

He took his bow and his arrow; fixed his eyes 
on the mark so dear; twice he essayed to raise his 
how, and twice it fell from his paternal hands* 
At length, summoning up all his skill, his strength, 
and courage, he w iped the tears from his streaming 
eyes; invoked the Great Eternal, who from Hea¬ 
ven’s high throne w atches over parents; and, nerv¬ 
ing his trembling arm, he endeavoured, lie accuse 




83 


tomed his eye to see nothing but the apple. Pro¬ 
fiting by the only moment, swift as thought when 
he could forget his son, he drew the bow;—-the 
arrow whizzed on the wing, cleft the apple, and 
carried it away. 

The place resounded with the shouts of joy. Al¬ 
bert flew and embraced his father, who pale and 
motionless, overcome with the effort he had made, 
returned not his caresses: lie looked at him; his 
eyes were swollen with tears; he scarcely heard 
what his son said to him: his knees tottered—he 
was ready to fall. He fell into the arms of Al¬ 
bert, who discovered the arrow concealed beneath 
his clothes. 

Gcsier was already near him; Gesler snatched 
the arrow. William recovered his senses, and im¬ 
mediately fixed his eyes on the cruel Gesler , who 
instantly addressed him: “ Unequalled archer l” 
said he: “ I will fulfil my promise; I will pay the 
price of thy astonishing skill. But, first, tell me 
what was intended by this arrow, which thou con¬ 
cealed from my sight. Only one was necessary: 
for what purpose was this V’—“ To pierce thy 
heart, tyrant,” replied Tell, “ if my unfortunate 
hand had shortened the days of my son V* 


89 


At these words, which a father could not retain, 
the terrified Governor rushed into the midst of 
his satellites. He revoked his promise; he order¬ 
ed Sarnem to load William with chains, and con¬ 
duct him to the fortress. They obeyed ; they tore 
him from Albert's embrace, who desired in vain to 
accompany his father. The guards repulsed Al¬ 
bert : the people murmured, but were compelled to 
stille their sentiments. Geslcr hastened to his pa¬ 
lace, and ordered all his troops to be in arms. 
Numerous platoons of Austrians paraded in every 
part of the city, and compelled the affrighted inha¬ 
bitants to conceal themselves in their houses.—- 
Terror reigned in Altorff, and the executioners 
with savage anxiety waited for new victims. 


END OF THE THIRD BOOK, 


/ 


BOOK FOURTH. 


I 


WHILE the restless tyrant secured him¬ 
self within his fortress, doubled the guards around 
the ramparts, and dreaded lest the populace, en¬ 
raged, should endeavour to rescue William, Al¬ 
bert, the unhappy Albert, with tearful eyes and 
arms extended, demanded of all he met to restore 
to him his father. Repulsed by the ferocious sob 
diery, who guarded every avenue, with agonizing 
shrieks he paced around the citadel. Clara, who 
during the horrid scene had been detained in the 
palace, at length escaped the watchfulness of those 
who guarded her, and sought Albert on every side: 
she succeeded in finding him, flew into his arms, 
and sought to dry his tears. “ My father is in 
chains!” said Albert; “my unhappy father is about 
to perish! Clara, listen to me: I have lost the 
cheering.hope of gaining admittance to his prison. 




of remaining with him, of attending him, and end¬ 
ing my life with his. I will yet attempt the only 
chance now left me of his safety. I hasten to Un- 
denvald : I will acquaint your father of the danger 
of his friend. Melctal has many friends; Melctal 
is brave, has arms, and will fly to his deliverance. 
I entreat you, my good, my much loved Clara, 
return to my mother; tell her what has happened, 
and wliat I am gone about. Go, Clara; go quick¬ 
ly, and console her. I shall not return without 
Melctal —I will perish, or I will save my father! 
You must supply my place to my beloved mother.” 

He spoke, and, directly leaving Clara, in eager 
haste he leaves the city, and soon- reaches the 
mountains. Clara hastily returned towards the 
cottage of Telly where the old Henry, where the 
gentle Emma, far from William, from their chil¬ 
dren, whose fate they knew not, consumed the 
hours in anxious expectation. 

The sudden arrival of Clara, pale, and almost 
breathless with fear, and suifused with tears, in¬ 
creased the agonies of Emma: she arose, and flew 
towards her; at the same time exclaiming, “ Al¬ 
bert !—Albert, my son! Where, where is my 


92 


boy? ,? —“ He is alive ! he is at liberty!” hastily an¬ 
swered Clara, who threw herself into her grand- 
sire's arms,—embraced him, embraced Emma; 
and in a faltering voice she then related all that 
had happened; how they were led from prison to 
be confronted with Tell ; and the dreadful alterna¬ 
tive to which both the father and the son were 
compelled to submit. She knew not much more, 
but that William was in prison, loaded with chains; 
Albert, to procure his father’s deliverance, had 
gone to seek out Melctal; Tell was threatened with 
death, and the Governor had sworn it. 

At this melancholy recital, Emma, overwhelmed 
with grief, fell senseless on the bench she sat. 
The old man, in frantic agony, uttered the most 
lamentable cries: he insisted on being taken to his 
son—would tight with him, and perish in assisting 
to deliver William. Clara with difficulty restrain- 
ed the pitiable old man, runs to the assistance of 
Emma, and exerts her tender cares to sootiie these 
two unhappy parents. 

At length, after the first effusions of so deep a 
sorrow, old Henry regained the coolness of reason ; 
regained his courage and liis prudence; seized the 


93 


hands of Emma, already on his lap, and press¬ 
ed them to his heart. “ Weep not," said he, “ my 
virtuous friend, weep not: let us not lose in vain 
tears a period, every moment of which is so pre¬ 
cious. Albert is in Underwald; in a few hours he 
will reach my son.—I know Melctal. This very 
night, Melctal , followed by all his friends, will 
take the route to Altorff; he will reach there to¬ 
morrow, and attempt every thing to save William. 
But, perhaps, the few friends he has may be insuffi- 
cient for the grand design. I have several in the 
town; I will go and arouse their courage, excite 
and encourage them: they will lead me to the 
market place at the dawn of day. There will I 
speak, there will I shew the w r ounds I have receiv¬ 
ed from Gesler , the sockets from whence my 
eyes were torn by his myrmidons. My age, my 
hoary locks, my disfigured face, my blood yet 
upon my clothes, and the tears of this feeble girl, 
all will aid the elocpience of truth. I hope it, I 
am certain of it: the people, moved w ith their 
wrongs and mine, will be proud to avenge them 
both. The crowd will immediately increase the 
number of friends I had collected: my son and 


vour’s will come; thev will find a numerous body 
ready to join them. We w ill attack the fort. 1 
w ill remain in the thickest of the battle, to ani¬ 
mate our brave soldiers; I will make the air echo 
with the names of your Country and Liberty!—■ 
They will carry me if I cannot follow' them; they 
w ill carry me to thy husband ; they w ill bring us 
both back to thy arms. Yes, I am certain of it: 
God inspires me with the thought, and announces 
to me the certitude of victory.—Come, daughter— 
let us go this instant; come, give me my stick, and 
lend me thy arm. Night cannot be far off: the 
night may be of use to us.” 

“ I approve your design,*’ said Emma, “ but it 
is I who must conduct you. Yet, ere we leave 
home, deign to hear me for a moment: I know, 
though he has never informed me of it, that my 
husband has long meditated the grand design of 
delivering his country. His secret journeys in 
Schwitz, in Underwald, in Urseren; the quantity 
of arms which he has concealed; his frequent noc¬ 
turnal absence; and the preoccupation of mind 
which 1 read on his countenance; all confirmed me 
of a conspiracy which has been long forming in 


95 


the three Cantons, and that William is the soul of 
it. I know not the names of the other chiefs; but 
I know that those chiefs exist, and that at a cer¬ 
tain moment a signal, without doubt, is settled 
upon and agreed between them. I have not been 
able to discover what this signal is; but a few days 
ago a thought darted across my brain like light¬ 
ning, from a word my husband dropped: this, with 
several others, has led me to suspect, has led me 
to believe, that the signal agreed upon by the pa¬ 
triot chiefs could be no other than a burning pile 
on the summit of this mountain. Time and as¬ 
sistance are wanting to form the pile to-night; but 
a secret voice whispers to my heart, that, if we 
could only make such a large fire, all the friends of 
my husband would haste to his deliverance. I 
consult thee, Melctal: my weak hand will suffice 
to set fire to the cottage which has served for our 
asylum. It stands on the most elevated spot. 
The vast flame will be seen by all the three Can¬ 
tons.—What is my house, my goods, to me, when 
my Husband is in danger ? If I save him, thou 
wilt receive us; if I lose him, I then only want a 
tomb!” 


She spoke, and old Henry encouraged her in 
the design. Emma seized a bundle of dry branches, 

o J w 

lighted it in the cottage, threw the flaming brands 
about her, and burnt without regret, without a sigh 
or tear, the cradle of her child and the chaste hy¬ 
meneal bed,which set the whole dwelling in a blaze; 

i 

when, feeling certain that nothing could extinguish 
the flames, she gave her arm to the old man, who 
was supported on the other side by Clara; and 
thus they descended together the craggy mountain, 
and took the road to Altorff. 

During the deep silence which terror had spread 
throughout the town, the old man, Emma, and Cla¬ 
ra, knocked at the doors of their friends. The fire 
lighted by the hand of Emma augmented, and, 
reaching the thatched roof of the cottage, the 
thatch blazed, and cast an immense glare of light. 
Verner perceived it in Schwitz; the fiery Melctal, 
whom Albert had not yet reached, leaped for joy 
at the sight; and Furst , in the heart of Urseren, 
doubted not but that William was at the head of 
the brave inhabitants of Altorff, and called on him 
for succour. Those three chiefs took arms at the 
same moment, and hastened to collect their friends. 


97 


and call them to liberty. Their friends awoke, 
seized their arms, assembled in silence, formed 
themselves into battalions; and from three quarters, 
almost at the same instant, the three chiefs march¬ 
ed towards Altorff, followed by troops weak in 
numbers, but strong in courage, and resolved to 
perish or deliver their country. 

With accelerated steps they hasted onwards: 
retarded by the snows, by torrents, and unbeaten 
roads, they dreaded lest they should arrive too 
late at the fort; at this formidable fort, which they 
must attack at once, and take it with the tyrant. 
But he, full of inquietude, alarmed by the emo¬ 
tions he witnessed in the people, fearing for his 
prisoner, trembling for his own life, had already 
taken new measures, any one of which would 
render vain all the efforts of the three patriots. 
Gesler at the decline of day, reflecting that his 
fortress filled with soldiers did not contain provi¬ 
sions sufficient for a long siege, fearing not to see 
himself besieged in this impregnable fortress, that 
be should not be able to communicate with the 
rest of his army scattered in Lucerne, Gesler called 
Sarnem to give him new' orders: “ Samem,’’ sain 

F 


lie, “ I am going to leave AltorfF, where thou slialt 
command in my absence. I leave thee iny brave 
soldiers, who will obey thy voice, and thine alone. 
This vile people, whose insolent murmurs are yet 
heard, shall soon be crushed by the reinforcements 
which I will send to thee. Let a large boat be 
instantly prepared, in which fifty men chosen from 
my guard can go with me this evening. As soon 
as night veils tiie earth, let the audacious William 
be conveyed to the boat:—he yet dares to brave 
my vengeance. Let him be laden with chains; 
take care of that, and see that he is conducted by 
a strong guard. I will myself take him to the 
strong castle of Kusnach, at the extremity of the 
lake of Lucerne: there, more safely guarded than 
here, there he shall remain in a dungeon chained, 
and punished b^ every ingenuity of torture that can 
leave the spark of life existing, and prove to the 
inhabitants of Altorif what may be expected 
from my vengeance/' Sarnem , proud of being 
chosen to replace the Governor, hastened to obey 
his orders. 

The boat was soon prepared, and fifty chosen 
archers were conducted by Sarnem himself to the 


99 


dungeon of Tell. The hero loaded with heavy chains, 
which scarcely allowed him the power of moving, 
is placed under the charge of those fifty archers ; 
and as soon as Night had spread her sable mantle 
on the earth, they conducted him in silence towards 
the shore, where Gesler, alone and in disguise, had 
already secretly repaired. Gesler made them 
place the captive in the hold of the vessel, surround¬ 
ed by his archers; seated himself near the prow; 
lavished his wine and money upon the soldiers 
and the rowers; and they departed without ob¬ 
servation. 

The vessel scudded over the waves: the air 
was pure, the water smooth, and the stars shone 
brightly in the firmament. A gentle southern 
breeze aided the efforts of the row ers, and tempered 
the rigour of the cold, which night, the time of 
year and the frost would otherwise render almost 
insupportable. Every thing favoured Gesler s 
wishes. He soon passed over the first lake of four 
Cantons; steered his course direct for Brunnen, in 
order to traverse the strait which leads into the 
second. Jell, in the mean time, borne down w ith 
the weight of his chains, stretched on the deck, 



» i > 


100 


in the midst of his guards, recognized on the left 
bank the barren rocks of Grutty; and that cavern, 
where, on the very evening before, he meditated 
with his friends, the freedom of his country. The 
sight of this, the recollection of what had passed 
there but so lately, nearly staggered his resolution. 
He felt the big drops stand on his eye, and, quickly 
wiping them away, he turned aside his head. Wil¬ 
liam looked up to Heaven, which at that moment 
seemed to have forsaken him. On a sudden he 
beheld on the side of Altorff a red and glimmering 
light: soon the light increased, and Tell perceived 
a bright flame ascending from above Uri. Ilis 
heart palpitated with violent emotion: he could 
not divine what occasioned this signal, the secret 
of which lie had entrusted to no person whatsoever. 
He doubts—he looks agaiu with eager eyes; and at 
length is convinced that the blaze seems to come 
from the mountain on which his dwelling was situ¬ 
ated. He gave thanks to Heaven, though ignorant 
whether it was a benefit: he hoped not, he thought 
not, that this circumstance might save his life; but 
it might save his country: and this thought render¬ 
ed him forgetful of his own immediate danger. 


0 , 
£* j 

<’ n n 


101 


Gesler and his soldiers had also perceived the 
flames; they pointed it out with much surprise; 
they attributed it to some burning cottage, and 
heeded not the misfortune which concerned their 
enemies only. Gesler urged on the rowers: impa¬ 
tient to arrive at the destined place, he ordered 
them to increase their efforts. The vessel steered 
toward the west, passed the narrow strait, and 
rowed on the deep waters of the dangerous lake 
of Underwald:—there on a sudden the south wind 
ceased to aid the rapid vessel; the north and the 
west winds now reigned in the troubled atmo¬ 
sphere. 

The one, the harbinger of tempests, swelled, 
heaped, and gathered the billows into mountairs, 
that instantaneously broke w ith a tremendous noise 
over the vessel, which yielding to their force, was 
driven in each succeeding instant in a different 
direction: vain were the efforts of the rowers. 
Now' they were driven w ith impetuosity towards the 
shore, and immediately back towards the straits. 
The other, leading on the hoar frost, clouds, and 
snow r , covered the heavens with a funereal veil, and 
spread the shades of darkness on the surface of 


102 


the foaming deep; struck the faces and the hands 
of the rowers with the crystallized points of ice, 
compelled them to abandon their labours, and hid 
from their downcast eyes the sight of their danger; 
-filled their vessel with the frozen flakes of snow, 
and, contending with the north wind, turned the 
bark round on her keel; now bore her high as the 
mountain tops on the white foaming billow; now 
precipitated her into an abyss of waters, menaced 
on each side by mountainous billows ready to break 
over her, and bury the whole amid the howling 
tempest. 

The soldiers, pale and overwhelmed with horror, 
felt their approaching death inevitable, and prayed 
on their knees to that God whom they had so long 
forgotten. The cowardly Gesler, trembling yet 
more than his soldiers, heaped promises of re¬ 
wards and treasures on the rowers if they could 
save his life: but they, sad, silent, and half dead 
with fear, replied to his entreaties only by silence. 
Tears, the dishonourable tears of weakness and of 
cowardice, bathed for the first time the ferocious 
eyes of the Governor. He was about to perish ; 
he felt certain of it: his riches and his might, the 


103 


savage power with which lie swayed, and his trusty 
slaves, all now availed him nothing; they could 
not avert the stroke of fate. He wept; he regretted 
life; regretted that his thirst of blood could now 
no longer be supplied. 

TeU y tranquil in the same place, less moved by 
the cries of the soldiers and the fury of the winds 
than his inability to discover the cavern of Grutty. 
Tell waited death with a smile, and gloried in the 
idea of the happiness his country would derive 
from the tyrant’s fate: in silence he enjoyed the 
fears, the trembling sobs and sighs, the torments, 
which Gesler felt; when one of the rowers suddenly 
addressed the cruel monster:—“ We are lost!” 
said he: “ it is no longer in our power to withstand 
the violence of the north wind, which will instantly 
dash our vessel against the rocks which border on 
the lake. A man, the most renowned in our three 
Cantons in the art of braving a storm, can alone 
aiTord us even a hope of existence:—that man is 
here, here, loaded with chains. Choose, Gesler; 
choose between the death of, all, and his liberty!” 
—Gesler trembled at the thought; his invincible 
hatred for Tell effected a counterpoise even in his 


104 


pusillanimous soul between death and the hero’s 
liberty. He hesitated, he gave no answer; but the 
prayers, the murmurs of the soldiers and the rowers, 
who asked, who begged, and pressed him to save 
his own life and theirs, in liberating his prisoner, 
the fear of being disobeyed if he refused, and the 
increasing tempest, determined him at length. 
“ Take off his chains,” said he. “ I pardon all his 
crimes, I restore him his life and liberty, if he brings 
us safe to land.” 

The soldiers and the rowers hastened to set Wil¬ 
liam free. He arose, and, without saying a word, 
took the command of the helm; turned the bark 
at his pleasure as a child would do a wand: he 
opposed the prow to the contending winds, whose 
forces, thus divided, held them in equilibria. Pro- 
tiling by a moment of calm, with the rapidity of 
thought he turned the vessel round; kept her in 
the only direction which could save them; seized 
two oars, and by his individual efforts succeeded, 
in spite of the winds, waves, and tempest, in re- 
passing the straits. The darkness of the night pre¬ 
vented Gesler from perceiving that he was return¬ 
ing. William redoubled his efforts in silence: 


105 


the first rays of refracted light darted through 
the black clouds of the tempest; but he was in the 
lake ofUri, and he perceived the dying flame of the 
signal given on the mountain of Altorfl'. This light 
served him for a beacon: he had long known the 
lake; he avoided the shoals and rocks, and approach¬ 
ed by degrees the shore of the Canton of Schwitz. 
He thought of Vcrner; he calculated that Verner 
ought to be on his inarch; and that the roads, 
covered with snow, would oblige him to coast 
along the lake. In this feeble hope he steered the 
vessel, feigning ignorance of the place the tempest 
drove her to, and increased the fears of Gesler and 
his soldiers. 

At length, streaks of red appeared towards the 
east, and the storm lulled by degrees with the ris¬ 
ing beams of morning. The opening day disco¬ 
vered to Tell the rocks near Altorfl', before the 
tyrant, whose scrutinizing look he feared, had time 
to recognise them. William directs the vessel’s 
course, and urged the rowers to their utmost ex¬ 
ertions. Gesler , whose cruelty returned as danger 
disappeared, observed William with a suspicious 
eye: he wished, yet dared not, again to fetter him. 

F 2 


106 


The soldiers and the rowers, perceiving however 
where they were, acquainted the Governor, who, 
advancing hastily towards Tell, enraged, and in a 
voice of passion, demanded why the vessel which 
he had charge of bent her course towards Altortt'. 
William heeded him not—he answered not, but 
laid the vessel alongside of a rock a little distance 
from the shore;—with one hand eagerly snatched 
a bow and arrow which an archer held, and, with 
the velocity of lightning, he shoved the vessel 
against the rock. There, without a moment's rest, 
he bounded like the chamois of the mountains, 
leaped upon another nearer to the bark, quickly 
climbed the craggy bank, and mounted to its sum¬ 
mit; like to the Alpine eagle when he reposes 
amongst the clouds, and looks with piercing eyes 
upon the harmless flocks covering the verdant val- 
lies. 

The astonished Governor uttered a cry of fury 
and of rage: he instantly orders every one to dis¬ 
embark, and directs his soldiers to divide them¬ 
selves, and surround the rock, where he beheld the 
hero. They obey, and already prepare their 
bow s, dealer, in the midst of them, wishes their 


107 


milted arrows drenched in the blood of William, 
William also has his plans : he stopped not in one 
place—he only shews himself to draw the soldiers 
after him: he permitted the armed body to ap¬ 
proach him near enough to do the work of death; 
he fixed his eye with steadiness on Gesler , fitted 
the arrow to the string, and, pointing it against the 
tyrant’s heart, it cleft the air. The arrow flew, 
whistling in its rapid course, and pierced the heart 
of Gesler. The tyrant fell, muttering nought but 
rage, fresh execrations, and vomiting out the pur¬ 
ple tide of life; his guilty soul fled, while curses 
closed his lips.—William had already disappeared ; 
William, more active than the fawn, darted from 
the summit of the rock: he flew along the fields of 
ice, traversed the now unfrequented paths, and 
took the road to Altorff. 

lie soon discovered in the snow the recent 
traces of their friends, whom Verifier that very 
night had led from Schwitz. William followed 
them; lie ran, he neared them,- Tumultuous 
shouts and the noise of arms are heard at a dist¬ 
ance: he flew with all his speed. Arrived at the 
market place—’tis already filled; occupied by 


i 


108 


three battalions of heroes. Venter, at the head of 
the warriors of Schwitz, wished to secure the gates 
' before they attack the fort; Fuvst , with the brave 
youths of Uri, solicits the post of danger; Meictal , 
followed by those of Undenvald, cleft the air with 
his ponderous axe, and with loud shouts demanded 
the order for attack. Albert, who had never quit¬ 
ted him, armed with a long lance, pronounced the 
name of Tell, demanded him of the soldiers, and 
pointed at a distance to the prison where they still 
believed that William was confined. The old 
Henry, Clara, Emma, mixed amongst the ranks of 
the scattered troops, and urged them on to the 
attack. 

Sudden and unexpected, William appeared in 
the centre of the three patriot battalions. An uni¬ 
versal shout of joy was heard throughout the ranks, 
and echoed from the mountains; a profound si¬ 
lence succeeded to it. All attentively waited for 
the orders of Tell —all seemed attentive to obey him 
alone. “ My friends, my companions,” said the 
hero, “ Gesler is no more i—this bow r , this arm, 
has punished all his crimes. The corpse of Gesler , 
stretched upon the bank of the lake, is surrounded 


109 


by those vile myrmidons whom terror had disperse 
ed: we have, then, nothing now to dread. Our 
country is revenged, but she is not vet free: nor 
will she ever be so, at least so long as one single 
stone remains of that frowning citadel which so 
long has awed us. Let us, then, attack this for¬ 
midable work, the sole hope, sole refuge, of the 
ferocious Austrians; let our troops march together, 
and let the bravest lead the onset!” 

He spoke, and, seizing the standard of Uri in 
his left hand, with his right he grasped his battle- 
axe, and rushed onwards to the bill on which the 
fort was built. Furst and his followers closely 
pursued his steps; Verner, with those of Schwitz, 
pressed after them: Mdctal with Underwald had 
already got half way; and Albert marched by the 
side of his father. Sarnem , prepared, awaited 
them. A clcud of arrows and of lances flew from 
the frowning ramparts: they checked not the onset 
of the assailants, who advanced witbout exchang¬ 
ing a single arrow to the foot of the walls:—Twas 
then the terrible, the fierce Sarnem, at a signal 
which he had agreed on, hurled from the battle¬ 
ments huge rocks and stones, followed by boiiing 


110 




pitch and oil. The brave warriors of the three 
Cantons are every where repulsed: the burning 
oil penetrates their garments, and consumes them 
in horrid agonies; they expire in excruciating 
pain; they bit the dust, and uttered their last 
piercing cries: but their cries were still for Liberty! 
Regardless of their pain and agony, the dying he¬ 
roes exhorted, encouraged their companions, and 
bade them march over their bodies to scale the 
citadel. The Austrians insulted them, and mock¬ 
ed their woes* Scrnein, placed between two bat¬ 
tlements, smiled contemptuously at their power¬ 
less efforts: he animated his soldiers, and his pre¬ 
sence and his courage prolong this fierce attack. 

William, surrounded by the dying and the dead, 
preserved his coolness and intrepidity; but at 
length, alarmed at the great number of his faithful 
soldiers he had lost, he called to him Melctal; 
and, reproaching himself with having too easily 
listened to the eager suggestions of bravery alone 
in making the attack, he exhorted him, nay he 
commanded him, to withdraw his brave troops 
from the combat, and to make an attack on the 
eastern side, whilst Verner and himself should re* 


Ill 


\ 


double their efforts to conceal this movement from 
the enemy. Melctal obeyed ; William and Verner 
again give the word, uttered loud shouts; and 
Sarnem and his troops, occupied with the fresh 
assault, unite all their efforts to oppose the attack 
of William. In the mean time, Melctal and his 
associates reached the eastern gate, which was but 
weakly guarded: he struck it with his powerful 
axe, laid fire to the frame, and the gate is soon in 
fames. Melcial darted forwards, and penetrated 
into the fort with the youths ofUndenvaid:—all 
yield, all fly before him. Sarnem, engaged in re¬ 
sisting Tell, heard the cries of the dying and the 
conquerors: he hastens to oppose them; he turns, 
and beholds Melctal. — Melctal, rapid as the 
thunderbolt, raised his ponderous axe, and cleft 
his hated rival; then, advancing to the edge of the 
battlements, lie extended his hands, and cried out 
Victory ! ! ! 

William soon joined him, and the standard of Uri 
floated over the walls of this once formidable cas¬ 
tle. Melctal and Verner, standing on a heap of 
slain, gave thanks to the Almighty, and answered 
to the acclamations of the people whom they had 
delivered. 


The fort was soon cleared of the dead bodies 
which had fil ed it. The troops of the three 
Cantons surrounded their gallant chiefs, and car¬ 
ried them in triumph amongst the inhabitants of 
Altorff, who, running from all quarters, were as¬ 
sembled in the market place to behold their 
^ # 

deliverers, and to confide to their wisdom, their 
courage, and their talents, the defence of Liberty; 
but William entreated their silence, and, having 
obtained it, thus addressed them: 

“ My countrymen ! at length you are restored 
to Freedom; but this Freedom, so dear to us, is 
perhaps more difficult to preserve than to acquire : 
for the one, bravery will alone suffice; for the 
other, we must possess virtues, austere, steady, and 
immoveable. Guard against the delirium of victo¬ 
ry ; guard against a blind adoration of those who 
obtained it for you. You already speak of chusing 
us your chiefs; while the only recompence which 
I require, the only one my heart now wishes for, 
is to become a soldier ; and to enjoy that equality, 
that charm, so pure, so dear, to true republicans. 
In a republic, my friends, we all are useful. Perish 
the man who thinks otherwise! and unhappy be 
that people who will not punish even the thought ! 


1 IS 


“ Assemble together, my friends, to weigh in 
the meditation of your wisdom both your interests 
and your designs; let every man, according to the 
laws, think, examine, and advise, what he deems 
best for his country’s good; let this privilege be given 
to every citizen of the age of twenty years. In 
proportion as we love our country, we have a right 
to interest ourselves about her welfare, and to con¬ 
tribute to it, both by our personal efforts and our 
understandings. Elect a Landamman; let that 
ancient title, respected by our forefathers, become 
more so amongst us ; let a council direct him; and 
let him, in turn, direct the council. Enact laws 
without laws, what would you he ? Liberty is but 
another name for submission to wise and prudent 
laws:—without them, it would be licentiousness. 
Preserve your morals; let them become, if possible, 
more pure. Without true virtue, there is no liber¬ 
ty. The republican, by this name, is placed in the 
middle state betwixt men and angels: let him, 
then, be better; let him, then, be greater than 
bis fellow men by whom he is surrounded. 

“ For myself, fellow citizens ! I wish not, I ask 
not, nor will accept, only the endearing name of 


114 


Fellow Patriot, and the right of combating in your 
ranks. You must expect new traits of your cou¬ 
rage ; you must expect that the Emperor will en¬ 
deavour to regain the sceptre you have now wrested 
from him. Prepare yourselves, then, to resist 
his efforts; prepare for battles, and trust your 
cause to God! Call, however, to the assistance of 
Liberty the other Cantons of Swisserland: either 
I am much deceived, or their hearts already beat 
in unison with ours. Then, by dint of arms, of 
virtue, and of courage, you will found a republic 
which will one day become the terror and the ad¬ 
miration of all Europe; then will mighty kings 
be proud of the name of Ally, and will believe 
themselves invincible while they have the Swiss 
for their defenders; then, reaping the full honours 
both of valour and of wisdom, you will prefer 
the glory of being Men and Free!” 

He spoke, and the people, with loud continued 
plaudits, signified their approbation: they im¬ 
mediately proceeded to the election of their magis¬ 
trates. Tell, Verner , Melctal , now returned to 
their original rank of simple citizens; received the 
humble reward, the meed cf valour and of virtue. 


1 15 


a crown of oak:—they returned to their former 
ranks. And this people for two hundred years 
resisted all the power of the Empire, and founded 
its freedom on its victories. 


TIIE END. 


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